Margot Kidder: My Descent into Being a Slut Wife.
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.
