Lawd, where to start? They say at the beginning, right? But which beginning? When I lost my virginity and learned my power over men? When I seduced my first teacher to get an ‘A’ in a class I rarely attended? Perhaps when I realised that I could get my degree with little effort other than to moan as I pretended my professor’s lovemaking was making me feel anything other than contempt for them? Do I start when I learned at eighteen that women were no more immune to my luscious charms than men?

No. All of the above is irrelevant to my tale other than to see that I have had casual sex with whomever I wanted since my breasts developed into the high-standing, firm 16E they still are today at age fifty. I’ll start with marrying my husband. A rich man who I held firmly wrapped around my little finger until last year when our eldest left home.

I’m short, barely over 150 cm (5-ft.). Stacked, 16E breasts, 22-inch waist. 36-inch hips. Plump, shapely thighs tapering to slender calves and delicate ankles. My hair is naturally honey-blonde, augmented with the dye bottle now. My face is unlined, and there is no doubt that I’m beautiful, stunning, even. A face and body that men would, and have, paid thousands of dollars to sleep with.

Before marrying my husband, Christopher Kidder, I was a lawyer. A shit one, I’ll admit. I didn’t earn my degree through study and hard work. I earned it by seducing my professors and classmates. I’d beguile the two nerdiest kids in my classes, one male and one female, and then encourage them to do my reports and assignments for me. Then, if my professors suspected that I wasn’t doing my own work, I’d ensnare them in my lush assets, too.

Am I ashamed that I did? Not at all. Becoming a lawyer was a stepping stone to meeting a rich nerd I could seduce, marry, and cuckold. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about the law. Christopher Kidder was that man. He was top of his class at The University of Queensland and the golden boy at his firm, Craig, Paul, and Smith.

I came up against him, representing some perp who had served so much time in jail for petty crimes that I knew taking this case was a waste of everyone’s time. The idiot perp had been bitten by Christopher’s client’s dog when he was trying to break into his client’s home. My client was trying to sue for damages and emotional harm. I didn’t bother putting much of an effort in, and the judge tossed the case almost as soon as we’d made our opening statements. Still, I got my $450 fee from the public defender’s office for taking the case, which is why I was there.

I’d flirted with Christopher during the pretrial meetings, and as I hoped, he asked me for a drink as soon as the judge tossed the case. Christopher was tall, 195 cm (6-ft 4), and pudgy. Not overweight, but flabby and soft. He still wore his hair in a bowl cut that I’m sure his mother inflicted on him on his fourth birthday, and he hadn’t changed since. Christopher was short-sighted and wore thick black plastic-rimmed glasses. Me coming onto him was probably the highlight of his life so far.

Christopher, no matter that he was incredibly intelligent, was also incredibly naïve. I knew that my usual tactic of forcefully taking what I wanted from the men I desired or desired to use would send him running, so I turned to my secondary gambit—one of the innocent ingenue. Being short, stacked, and blonde meant this stratagem captured his heart immediately. Tall men instinctively want to protect and defend small women, and I played that ruse for all I was worth.

It wasn’t until our fourth date that I let him kiss me, and I didn’t let him feel me up until the seventh. Then, I made Christopher wait until the twelfth date before I let him fuck me. He was hopeless, of course, but I can fake an orgasm better than the best porn star you’ve ever seen. Christopher stopped making love to me after his second orgasm, which was less than five minutes after his first, because he thought he’d pleased me so well that I’d passed out. He asked me to marry him less than a month after that.

I took my first extramarital lover on our honeymoon. She was the room’s maid. Christopher had taken me to Paris for our honeymoon, and our room in the Hôtel Maison Mère was exquisite. However, after three days and nights of enduring Christopher’s clumsy attempts to make love to me and not having a single orgasm, I was as horny as a randy goat in rutting season. Christopher wanted to visit some obscure art gallery that held some pieces from an even more obscure French painter whose name I cannot even remember. I pleaded a headache and tiredness and waited for our maid to come in to tidy up.

Daniella, the maid, was from one of the former French colonies in the West Indies; I didn’t bother asking which one, but she was ripe for plucking. I lay on the bed naked, waiting for her to arrive. Then, when I heard her knock, I pretended to be asleep. Daniella assumed from the lack of response that it was safe to enter the room and clean. She stumbled when she saw my naked body reposed on the bed, but I heard her gasp when she noticed my wet pussy, which I’d played with, so my labia petals were flowered open for her to enjoy.

Knowing that I had her and that I hadn’t misread her signals when she looked at me, I reached over and took her wrist in my hand, pulling her toward the bed and me. Daniella didn’t resist, and our lips met in a sweet Sapphic kiss. I slid my right hand up her maid’s uniform and thumbed her clitoris as I probed her entrance with my fingers. In return, Daniella’s hands roamed over my lush bosom. She seemed fascinated by my enormous breasts, and as soon as I released our kiss, she lowered her face and pressed it between my tits.

I moaned as her tongue danced over my nipples, which encouraged Daniella to push me onto my back. Her head was between my creamy thighs only seconds later, and my first orgasm was only moments after that.

Pushing the maid away, I helped her out of her dress, dragged her onto her back on the bed, and feasted on her wetness. Daniella’s liquids tasted pungent and thick on my tongue, and her engorged clit hung lewdly from its sheath. It was at least an inch long and shaped like a miniature cock. Taking it in my mouth, I circled it with my lips, bit its stem firmly, and lashed it with my tongue. Daniella squealed as her first orgasm struck with the ringing power of Notre Dame Cathedral’s bells.

However, it turned out there was more than a little Domme in Daniella, something I was willing to submit to. She locked her thighs around my ears and rolled me onto my back. Then, with one hand holding the back of my head so she could grind her pussy against my face and the other plundering her breasts, Daniella rode my face to several more climaxes before lowering her mouth back onto my pussy and eliciting the same from me.

My will and energy faded after my fourth climax, and I lay slumped on the bed, almost asleep. Daniella dressed again and hummed happily as she tidied the rest of the room. She left after saying she was available to play anytime that I was. I managed a couple of hours of sleep, satiated for the first time since Christopher asked me to marry him. My interlude with Daniella allowed me to bear my new husband’s fumbling advances for the remainder of our honeymoon.

Christopher wanted me to give up work and ornament his arm at the various parties and functions he needed to attend to increase his profile and value to his firm. He also wanted me to get pregnant as soon as possible. I happily did both things and to ensure there could be no scandal or accusations of infidelities when my kids didn’t look like him, I kept my philandering to women only until after our fourth child was born.

It would be easy to say that my marriage was idyllic, and I’m sure for Christopher, that it was. However, although his lovemaking improved some from the overeager rutting he foisted on me in the beginning, he never became more than an adequate lover. Of course, to keep with my ingenue act, I couldn’t admit to being a lusty woman who had bedded more than a hundred lovers before he carried me to our marital bed. That meant I couldn’t show Christopher how to improve because he’d immediately wonder where I’d come by my knowledge.

Boredom and sexual frustration became my constant companions. We were rich, which meant I had a maid for the house, a nanny to look after the children, and a gardener to do the lawns and tend to the garden beds. I tried to establish a good relationship with my kids, and I mostly did until it was time for them to go to high school. Christopher insisted our four boys attend Melbourne Grammar school as he and his three brothers had.

My sole responsibility was to remain a red-hot-looking MILF my husband could parade on his arm, which was a task I could accomplish easily. With my enormous breasts, even when I developed a slight tummy bulge in my early forties, it was easy to purchase tops and dresses that clung to my boobs before falling to my hips, hiding my slightly flabby stomach. However, despite developing a ‘bit of a tummy’, the rest of me remained firm and divine. My breasts virtually hadn’t sagged at all, and my lush bottom remained sag and cellulite-free—the same with my thighs.

I knew I was still a hot MILF because the men from Christopher’s firm, CPS, flirted endlessly with me. Also, when my husband and I attended school functions in Melbourne, my son’s teachers, friends and classmates all ogled me.

Time passed. I remained at home with my children until they went to school, and then I did some part-time work for the local drop-in legal centre. Only two to three hours a day, so I’d be available whenever my husband wanted me. The kids grew and went away to university, and I kept my affairs to only women to ensure Christopher would never suspect my infidelity. Christopher’s climb to senior partner continued, and other than boredom and ennui, I had no complaints.

Looking back, the beginnings of my descent to slut wife were apparent for me to see, but in my arrogance, I ignored the signs because I was sure I had my husband enthralled. The first sign was Christopher’s new haircut. Nearing his fiftieth birthday, he still maintained the bowl cut he’d had when I met him before he changed it out of the blue. However, I was grateful he’d finally had it cut to something less embarrassing that I didn’t care why he’d changed it.

The second sign was when he got laser surgery to fix his astigmatism. But I figured he’d finally gotten sick of wearing glasses and having to squint. Christopher regularly complained about trying to play golf in the rain when wearing glasses, and I guessed he did something about it.

Next was my husband’s sudden health kick. He gave up the cigarettes, cut way back on his drinking, started jogging three times a week, and went to the gym twice a week, too. I put that down to the fact that he was closing in on fifty.

The fourth sign was that Christopher was suddenly all over me again. But what I should have noticed was that his lovemaking had significantly improved. However, stupid me didn’t complain because he was finally giving me satisfying orgasms. Not only had I maintained my looks and figure, but I’d also done my Kegel and pelvic floor exercises religiously so my pussy remained as tight as it was when we married. I put that warning down to Christopher watching porn. I’d seen his computer when it had been left on, and various porn sites were still open on the screen.

I know now that those four signs are classic indicators that your spouse is having an affair, but I naively thought I had his heart and balls in my pocket. How wrong I was.

I’d recently turned forty-seven when I began spotting between my monthly visitor. Because my family of origin had several incidences of various cancers, I made an appointment to see my doctor. He immediately ordered some scans, which confirmed I had a cyst in my ovary. My specialist was sure it was benign, but because of my age and family history, he decided to take the safe option and give me a complete hysterectomy.

Christopher was much less supportive than I expected, muttering something about me being barren and unable to conceive any more children. To punish him, and because I no longer needed to worry about getting pregnant, I started having affairs with men again. I was still careful, though. Insisting that my lovers wear a condom. With my husband being a lot more amorous, I couldn’t run the risk of him wanting to make love and me having to refuse because my pussy was already full of cum.

Our marriage continued to deteriorate, but we were still humming along until Max, our youngest, finished high school and announced he was staying in Melbourne to work and live with his girlfriend. I turned fifty only a few days after that announcement, and I was somewhat disappointed with the party Christopher threw for me. Almost everyone there was from my husband’s firm, or they were his golfing buddies. He hadn’t invited any of my friends or work colleagues, nor had he flown our kids up for it. Also, he spent more time dancing with one of the junior lawyers than with me. I should have known my life was about to implode because the young woman looked remarkably like I did at the same age.

The first change was abrupt. We got home after the party, and Christopher grabbed my shoulders and forced me onto my knees before him. He pulled out his admittedly impressive 7-inch cock, slapped my face with it and demanded, “Suck, bitch!”

I let it pass, thinking he’d had too much to drink, and took him into my mouth. Blowing my husband was something I rarely did. Typically, I’d only do it on his birthday and Christmas because sucking cocks wasn’t something ‘good girls’ did. Of course, I pretended to be shit at it and only took his glans and a little more into my mouth. Then, when he came in my mouth, I’d pretend to be revolted and run to the en suite to spit it out.

Grabbing the back of my head, Christopher rammed his entire shaft down my throat and growled, “I said ‘suck, bitch’!”

I had two choices here. One was accepting his cock and deep-throating it as I could have done readily. The second was pretending to retch as if I was about to throw up. I chose the second.

“Don’t even think of gagging, you fucking slut,” Christopher snarled. “I’ve heard all about your sexual antics at university, and I know that you’re a talented cocksucker who has gleefully swallowed much larger cocks than mine.”

I tried tears, but all they did was make him angrier.

“Cut the bullshit and suck, or I’ll take my belt to your fat arse,” he snarled.

I was shocked and stared up at him, wondering what the fuck was going on. Who was this? What had happened to my wimp husband? Why was his angry dominance making me wet? I sucked. I chucked away twenty-five years of pretence and showed just how gifted my lips, mouth and tongue were. If only I weren’t so sure in my arrogance, I’d have realised that Christopher should not have been able to resist my oral attention to his cock. Not unless someone equally as talented had been blowing him regularly.

I worked my husband’s cock like I probably always should have been, driving him remorselessly up to the peak of his climax. He got there when I cupped his huge balls in my hand, something I’d never done for him before. Christopher poured two spurts of his man goo into my stomach before pulling his cock out of my mouth and spitting the rest over my face.

He looked disparagingly at my cum-covered face and contemptuously said, “Now you’re starting to look like the slut you are. Wait there; I want to get my phone out and take some pictures.”

I knelt there, shocked by my husband’s actions. I wondered where this had come from. Why was he suddenly treating me like this? What did he mean he’d ‘heard all about my sexual antics at uni’? My musings were interrupted by the flashes from his phone as he took several close-up pictures of my cum-covered face.

I eventually found my voice as he scrolled through the photos, deleting the ones he wasn’t happy with and then taking more. “Christopher, honey. What’s going on?” I asked, using the sweet ingenue voice I’d used so effectively for twenty-five-plus years. “You know that I’ll blow you any time you want, right? You don’t have to force me by taking pictures.”

“You don’t get to call me honey, you fucking whore,” Christopher snarled. “You will refer to me as Master or Sir. Do I make myself clear?”

“Christopher, baby. Tell me what’s going on?” I tried, but I knew my sins from before I married him had somehow come to light.

“What’s going on, my dear, darling, slut wife, is that I have had my eyes opened, and I know what a whore you were before I stupidly allowed you to seduce me and inveigle your way into my life. Now, for the last time before I punish your disrespect, it is Sir or Master!”

“Christopher,” I began, and my husband had his belt off his trousers faster than I could believe possible. It slashed through the air between us and lashed across my breasts. I screamed and fell back, only for Christopher to rip my dress apart, tear my bra over my breasts, flip me onto my stomach and belt my shapely ass with several vicious lashes.

“Are you deaf or stupid, you dumb slut?” He snarled. “Sir or Master!”

“Sir, please. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What’s going on, Slut Margot, is that Messrs Craig and Paul. You know, the two most senior partners in my firm? Have asked me to become a senior partner. But before they asked me, they wanted to ensure that I knew who my wife was. You see, Craig and Paul were part of several of the many trains you had run through your whore cunt and ass when you attended uni. They told me about double-penetrating you as you sucked another cock and jacked off two others. Then, they explained how five others took their places when they’d finished dumping their loads in you.”

It was probably true because I’d been a member of a select group of call girls who attended several events as ‘party favours’ for the guests. I loved sex and would have probably gone to and fucked everyone at these events if I were invited anyway. Getting paid $1500 for the night was merely a bonus.

He glared at me contemptuously as I lay, trying to recover from being belted with his strap. I had no reply because when Christopher had taken me to an office party at Craig, Paul, and Smith, I’d thought Messrs Craig and Paul looked vaguely familiar. My ass stung like two bitches, but before I could contemplate how to fix this, my husband’s naked body coved mine. He ripped my panties off and shoved his dry cock up my ass.

Being a ‘good girl’, I’d never let him near my ass, even though he’d asked many times. I screamed as he brutally sodomised me, but then, something unbelievable happened. My mind skipped into some weird, submissive space where my body enjoyed being brutalised. Christopher pulled all but the tip of his cock from my abused ass before viciously ramming it back in, and I opened my mouth to scream but climaxed instead.

“Fuck, what a slut,” Christopher said disgustedly as I orgasmed to his brutality. He pumped into me several more times before cumming in my ass. Then, he rolled me over, slapped my breasts, and sat on my chest. “Suck, slut,” he demanded.

“No way!” I protested. “That’s been up my ass!”

“As if this is the first time you’ve done ass-to-mouth,” Christopher sneered.

He grabbed my nose and pinched it shut. Then, when I had to open my mouth to breathe, he shoved his cum and poo-covered dick back into my mouth. My husband was right in that this wasn’t the first time I’d done ass-to-mouth, but in my previous life as a slut, I’d always carefully douched my ass if I knew I’d be taking cocks up there. His was disgusting, and I could smell and see my shit on it before it went in my mouth.

I gagged, of course, only for my husband to snarl, “Don’t even think of vomiting while my cock’s in your mouth!” Forcing my vomit reflex down, I lay quiescently, waiting for him to finish. But that wasn’t enough for him. He grabbed a handful of my hair and ripped it up. “I said ‘suck’, you fucking whore!”

Surrendering to the inevitable, I hollowed my cheeks as I sucked voraciously. Simultaneously, I swirled my tongue over his shaft, doing my best to ignore the taste of shit on my tongue. But then, that same strange mind shift happened again, and my nipples stiffened under my husband’s ass as the wetness in my pussy exploded. When Christopher pulled out and unloaded onto my face again, I mewled protestingly because I hadn’t gotten to taste his cum.

“Go and clean your whore face,” my husband contemptuously said as he stood up. He took a beer from the fridge and went and sat in the lounge naked.

I made it to the bathroom before I had to kneel and vomit. Then, I had to spin around and sit because whatever my husband had dumped into my ass, my body wanted to eject. I checked, but luckily, I wasn’t bleeding, although I was very raw. I showered and washed my face, pussy, and ass. I brushed my teeth vigorously and used lots of mouthwash to take the stink out of my breath. Even after brushing twice and gargling three times, I could still taste poo on my breath, although it was probably only my imagination.

I returned to the lounge and went to sit beside my husband. “What do you think you’re doing?” He growled.

“Sitting beside you,” I replied, nonplussed. It was my usual spot, sitting beside him and holding his hand sweetly.

“Whores don’t sit beside their Masters,” Christopher grated. “They kneel obediently at their feet.”

I tried, “Master, please. Someone has filled your ears with lies. I’m not like that. You know this. I’ve been a good wife to you and mother to your children for twenty-five years.”

“Really?” Christopher said, opening something on his phone. He turned and showed it to me. The first item was a photo taken during one of the orgies I’d attended at uni. I knelt in the middle of a circle of men with my mouth open, waiting to receive my next load. My face and tits were already covered with cum. The second photo was of me leaving the downtown hotel where I’d met and fucked one of my lovers the previous week. It was only of me exiting the hotel, but I knew if someone had taken that one, there’d be others more damning as well. “Still want to tell me you’ve been a good wife?”

My blood ran cold, and I didn’t know what to say. I mean, what could I say? Perhaps I could pretend the first photo wasn’t me, but I have a heart-shaped birthmark above my left breast, and unfortunately, it was the only part of my breasts that wasn’t covered in cum. The mark was clearly visible, so convincing anyone that the woman in the picture wasn’t me would be challenging.

Christopher gripped my head between his large hands and dragged my face back onto his cock. “Suck, slut,” he snarled. “For twenty-five years, I’ve gotten barely anything from you while you fucked literally hundreds of men. That ends. Now, all you are is my cum pig. I will dump my juice into you whenever and wherever I want, and every time I do, you will accept it gleefully and say, ‘Thank you for your gift, Master’.”

Christopher used my throat viciously until he climaxed into my mouth. He pushed me away, and I submissively said, “Thank you for your gift, Master.”

He smiled gloatingly at me, pleased by my obeisance. Then his lip curled before he stated, “I will not divorce you because I’m not giving half of my wealth to a whore. But if you try to divorce me, I will dump your fat arse out on the street in the clothes you’re standing in and use the entire resources of my firm to tie you up in court until you crawl on your knees and beg me to give you something so you can live. And even then, still, I will not until you plead for me to take you back as my whore.”

He continued, “If you serve me as my slut, then I will allow you to stay in my home and live in the lifestyle your whoring ass is accustomed to. But you will fuck me when I want to fuck, swallow my cum when I want to use your mouth, and you will thank me for doing it every single damned time!”

Christopher glared at me, waiting to see if I’d try to resist. But my mind had slipped into the weird, submissive space I’d dropped into twice already. His words were turning me on, and my nipples and clitoris ached as fluids poured from my pussy. I lowered myself to the floor and placed my head on Christopher’s feet. “I understand, Sir. Please, Sir, your slut will do her best to please you.”

My husband is fifty-five, and previously to this night, he virtually hasn’t cum more than twice in one night since our honeymoon. However, he’d already cum four times tonight, and somehow, he was still harder than the Rock of Gibraltar. “Present your ass, then,” Christopher snarled, spitting into his palm and rubbing it over his thick 7+-inch cock.

Grateful that he was going to use some kind of lube this time, I turned, put my shoulders on the ground, reached behind me, and parted my generous ass globes. Christopher knelt, positioned his cock against my ass and rammed it in. Luckily, with the combination of his spit as lube and that my ass still gaped from his earlier assault, it didn’t hurt as terribly as it had the first time. It still hurt so bad that I screamed again, though.

My husband clearly found my squeals exciting because he gripped my lush hips firmly and ripped me back as he pounded my poor asshole. However, my body responded to his abuse submissively. The ache in my nipples and clit, and the wetness in my pussy changed the pain to pleasure, and after his fourth brutal shove into my protesting ass, I came and squirted my pussy juices over his balls. I’d never squirted before during our lovemaking, although it was one of the reasons I was so popular at the orgies.

“Alf and Steven told me you were a squirter,” my husband grunted as he pummelled my poor, abused ass. “I held that out as a hope that they were mistaken about your identity because you’d never squirted for me. But I see now that you’re precisely the cock-whore they said you were. Turn and finish me with your mouth.”

I reluctantly turned and allowed Christopher to shove his cock into my mouth. Then, knowing he’d make me do it anyway, I swallowed his cum and cleaned his dick with my mouth and tongue. It wasn’t as bad as the earlier because I’d emptied my lower bowel, but it was still disgusting.

Christopher pushed me off his cock onto my back. Then, looking down at me contemptuously, he said, “Go and clean your face and brush your teeth. You look and smell like shit.” He jacked his cock a few times before adding, “I reckon that I can get at least two more cums out of the Viagra pill I took before I have to sleep, so hurry up and return.” I began to stand, but my husband smacked my ass and growled, “Crawl like the whore you are.”

Why was this making me wet again? I wondered as I crawled out of the lounge. My husband’s sudden domination and brutality was exposing a deeply submissive streak that I didn’t know I had. I washed my face and ass before returning, still on my knees. Christopher pulled my head back into his lap when I reached him, and I serviced his cock again. I could tell he was close to cumming, but before he did, he shoved me onto my back and rammed his cock into my sopping pussy.

“You’re loving this, you fucking whore,” My husband chortled. “You’re loving being the fucking slut you’ve always been. Take it, my slut. Take my cock in your whore cunt and cum for your Master.”

Christopher grabbed my E-sized breasts, squeezing them in his hands painfully as he hammered my pussy with meaty, staccato thrusts. The pain and his dominance turned to wanton desire and pleasure in my mind, and I exploded like dynamite thrown into a fire, screaming my pleasure to the world. Christopher filled my pussy as I came and then forced his cock back into my mouth for me to clean. Licking and sucking my pussy juices off his cock was far more pleasant than when it had been in my ass, so I serviced his cock with all the oral skills I’d learned from being a college slut. He groaned and dribbled another small load before shoving me onto my back and walking off.

“Clean your cunt and face and meet me in my bedroom,” he snarled over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to crawl.” After I’d complied, I crawled to our bed and started climbing onto it. “What do you think you’re doing?” Christopher growled.

“Getting into bed,” I replied. “Like you told me to.”

“I told you to meet me in my bedroom, not get into my bed,” he emphatically stated.

“It’s my bed, too,” I pointed out.

“Not anymore,” he snarled. “Sluts sleep on the floor at the foot of their Master’s bed, ready to service their Master’s cock when he summons them. I did not summon you.”

I’d seen the narrow mattress and blanket when I crawled around the bed but hadn’t equated it to my having to sleep on it. I was exhausted and overwhelmed by Christopher’s treatment of me and didn’t have any fight left in me. Suppressing a defeated sigh, I pulled my nightie out of the nightstand and started to put it on.

“Sluts sleep naked so that all of their holes are readily available to their Master,” Christopher said patiently as if he was talking to a recalcitrant child.

I suppressed another sigh and crawled to the thin mattress. Despite everything, I was asleep only moments later.