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I’m sitting alone on my couch, drinking a glass and looking out my nice picture window. My jeans are unzipped, and I’m casually scrolling my social media feeds, which have strangely become noticeably more explicit over these last weeks since things… changed. Casually also touching myself.
I’ve already cummed once today, after waking up from a dream in the middle of the night. Reviewing the last few “finished” photos of me being fucked and used in various ways and places has me distracted again. They are, in fact, a progression of my awakening and my self awareness into my dark(?) real me. I find this both dangerous and alluring.
The first snapshot is a photo of me from my then “rapist” (now my Awakener); fresh and raw, glaring, staring, hangry, confused… confronted with the psychological and physical fact that what I secretly wanted, to myself, was more real than all the pretenses I made up to excuse what society taught me I could never want. There I was, learning how I was wanting cum leaking out of my pussy, tied to my husband’s bed, my body flushed and my face contorted. Called out by my surprise lover for wanting my blindfolded stranger sex, and then being mad when it wasn’t whom I expected. It was like losing my virginity, in a way. When I lost my virginity long ago, it was awkward, exciting, painful, trend setting… it’s all fresh again today.
My fingers retrace where he licked me.
Then I invited him over, originally calling it blackmail travesti istanbul (to justify my cheating thrill), but I accepted my change (and his cum again) when he fucked me on my own formal dining table. That one always makes me laugh a little. It was so sensuously romantic in its carnality. Fine wines, steaks, candles, and classy clothes… all cast aside for loud, open curtains window fucking. I stare at myself again and again on my photo app, as Jeremy’s cum leaks out of me and onto my table, staining it.
I usually cover that one with a trivet when Andrew and I have dinner together. Sometimes I don’t. I told him some ice melted when he stayed late at work that night.
Next is a semi-blurry photo of me pulling up my panties, a slight drip on my upper leg.
We fucked on the stairs that time. I pretended to escape from the couch (my panties around my thighs, my sun dress up over my hips), and let him catch me. It’s true that I actually slipped as I was running up to the bed, but then again I couldn’t complain when his cock caught me. I held onto the banisters with both hands as we came together, my face pressed up against the rails. But this time when he seeded me, I just pulled up my panties, got back up, and finished running up the stairs. I held his cum in me (as long as I could), while I sat at my vanity and re-did my makeup. He didn’t chase me for more, because he knew: I had what I wanted.
That was the first time I sent him istanbul travestileri a selfie. I’m sitting erect on my pouf, applying new eyeliner, seemingly hot and innocent until you noticed the detail down in the corner of the photo: I’m rocking a little back and forth on that pinched little gushy, slimy wet panty stain I once despised.
There’s no pretending now, so I dip my fingers inside my panties, penetrating myself. My wrist pushes my zipper a little further down as I reach. My hips arch off the couch, and my hand pushes up under my shirt. I want my breast slapped, but only he can do it right, so I settle for a tug and twist.
It’s this next photo on my phone’s secret gallery that really does it though. Not sure who he hired to snap this one, but I followed my instructions to keep the bay window curtains open for them. It looks professionally long distance, like a CIA spy photo.
Andrew and I are eating dinner at our table. Totally appropriate. Normal. Could have been a stock photo, except for how much cum I’m secretly wearing…
…so what had happened was…
I’m leaving to pick up Thai food, and I get a text.
We “coordinate” in the parking lot around the corner. Meaning, I get in his car and lift up my skirt to grind on his cock, my hands on the steering wheel, my panties tangled around one ankle… until he cums again, deep inside of me. It takes a second to straighten my skirt back down without losing his load.
I istanbul travesti walk in after, to pick up my to go order with soggy panties, hard nipples, and mussed hair. The cashier looks at me funny. I smile at him and wink.
When I come out, Jeremy is still waiting there, leaning against my car. I hand him his food.
“Thanks Alice,” he says. “I want you to wear this,” presenting me with another gift box.
“Now?!?”
“It’ll match,” he promises.
I open the box, and it’s a flat, clear glass pendant, silver rimmed with a silver chain, filled with what looks like…
“Correct,” he replies to my quizzical glance, “I saved some for you. Now you will always be wearing me. But here’s what you need to do…”
The thrill of wearing his cum publicly, as jewelry, makes my knees randomly clench. People might ask about it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have to explain.
And so I masturbate hard, looking at that photo my lover texted me that other day to remind me of what happened next. He somehow captured me at that exact moment where I’m looking up expectantly at my husband to see if he needs something, and secretly wearing his cum in my panties, displaying his cum necklace around my neck, all while trying to casually slurp some pad Thai at the dinner table like it’s nobody’s business.
Innocent. Filthy. Goddess. Slut. Wife. Cheating whore. Me.
My pants are at my knees now, and I’m hard rubbing my clit with one hand, while clenching (stroking?) my cum pendant with the other. My butt rocks up off the couch as I orgasm, imagining him filling me with his wonderful, foreign sperm. It strikes me as so weirdly wonderful how we women want to be filled.
I want to be filled, again. Right now.
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