Wife For Sale And Movies From Please Bang My Wife

[FreeStory4U]

As I write this, Helen is getting ready for a date. Due to our busy
schedule, it's the first in three weeks. We're both so excited we've
been fucking like mink for the last four days. Mike, her newest
boyfriend, called her at the office Tuesday and asked her to go dancing
Saturday. Unlike most of her dates, on this one I have to stay home.
The parts of the city he wants to take her to aren't very safe for me,
invisibly trailing along like the voyeur I am. Besides, every once in a
while, the sheer torture of having to wait for her to come back to me
is the most exquisite foreplay I can imagine.

She looks even more gorgeous than usual. The emerald green cocktail
gown hugs her every curve like a snug glove, but the looser skirt
allows her plenty of room to dance, one of her more socially acceptable
passions. Her sleek legs gleam under nude hose, and her three inch
heels make them seem even more spectacular. Her rich brunette hair
hangs freely, arcing down toward her perfect little 32B breasts like
arrows pointing toward her awakened nipples. In her deep brown eyes is
a raw need I only fuel when I pump the fresh sperm into her pussy while
we wait for Mike.

He's huge. I'd forgotten just how big a man Mike is. He was a first
string defensive tackle when he played college football, and is still
as solid now as he was four years ago in his playing days. He dwarfs
Helen - even at the five-eight she is in her heels. I swear he had to
turn sideways to get through the front door. And he's equally big where
Helen's interests lie, too.

To me, he's always coolly polite. When we talk, it's like two
businessmen at the country club, and he's taking my wife away to a
charity auction. And, all the while we both know that within a few
minutes or hours, he'll be pounding her pussy, stretching her with a
ten inch long cock so fat she can barely get two fists around it. I'm
sure he's not trying to make me uncomfortable. My guess is that it's
his "honkey" face, not the one he wears at home. Helen has said much
the same thing - that, even when they're alone, even while she has her
legs wrapped around his waist and they're both screaming as they cum,
that there's a distance between them. I think that intrigues her, adds
even more excitement to her adultery.

When she called last night to tell me she wouldn't be home till
morning, twenty-twenty hindsight tells me I should have known something
out of the ordinary was happening. It was unusual, but not unheard of
for her to spend the night with the man she was seeing. Maybe I should
have heard the stress in her voice, or something pregnant in her
pauses. At least then I'd have been more prepared for what happened,
even though I wouldn't have been able to prevent it - had I wanted to.

How to phrase it? She left looking like my beautiful, classy, horny
wife leaving on the arm of her lover. She came back looking like a
streetcorner whore after a long night of tricks. Gone was the modestly
alluring green gown. In its place was a deep scarlet mini-dress,
matching mesh hose, and skyscraper heels. Her gently waved hairstyle
had been transformed into a curly brown cloud. She swayed seductively,
but tiredly, into the kitchen, where I was sipping coffee. I was
stunned, but instantly aroused, as well.

She told me the whole story while I fucked her like a madman. Mike had
told her, the moment they were in his car, that what she'd worn was all
wrong. Too white, he'd said. When she asked him to explain, he said
he'd show her instead. He stopped at a mall, ushered her into a store
staffed entirely by beautiful, exotically dressed black women. He told
them he wanted his piece of white tail fixed up for a night on the
town. Instead of being offended by being treated like a cheap bauble,
Helen said she got excited. The black women treated her with the same
callous attitude, like she was just some worthless white tramp the big
black man had picked up somewhere.

She modelled three scanty outfits before Mike approved the tiny,
unlined red dress. She was sure the clerks could all smell her pussy,
and there was no way they could have missed the way her rock hard
nipples poked through the thin fabric. It was when they were on their
way out, with Helen clinging to Mike's arm because of her uncertainty
in the stiletto heels, that she realized there was nothing extrordinary
about her minidress. She was clad just as the four women in the store
were.

In the car, she teased her hair after he told her to do something with
it. All the way to the bar, he fondled her thigh, tickled her cleft,
toyed with her breasts, and told her how hot she looked, how he
couldn't wait for all his friends to see what a hot bitch she was. He
told her to keep her left hand on his cock so she'd know how she was
effecting him. He brought her to the edge of orgasm several times, but
didn't let her go over. He liked to watch her pant, he said, liked the
way her solid little tits moved around under the dress, liked the way
she kept her lips wet and parted, like she was dreaming about sucking
his cock.

She was, she admitted. Dreaming about that and more. His words echoed,
seemed amplified, resonated in her erogenous zones like massive gongs.
She felt like she was hypnotized - and longed only to fall more deeply
under Mike's spell. Sparks ignited her nipples as they slid against the
slinky fabric of her sleazy little dress. Her red garters were welts
across her bared thighs. Her slick core pushed into his caressing
fingers.

By the time they got to the bar, she was already begging him to fuck
her, or let her fuck herself with her hand - anything that'd make her
cum. He chuckled and jerked her to him, pinning her arms against her
sides. His kiss was a brutal tongue fuck of her lips.

What he said next had the force of a quote: "You're acting like a
fucking slut. I like that. Think with your cunt tonight, baby, and I'll
show you the best time you've ever had."

With that, he'd taken her into the first of three stops they made that
night. The clientele was universally black, except for herself and two
other women. One was a redheaded singer in the blues band, the blonde
obviously just someone's date. Both were drop-dead gorgeous and wore
clothes even more risque than Helen's. Most of the eyes - male and
female - in the bar seemed to track them. Men and a few women stared
with lust. The rest glared enviously. And Helen saw that she was the
brunt of many gazes, herself.

Mike treated her like a prized, inanimate possession. A life-sized
Barbie Doll with a wet cunt and hard nipples. And that was exactly how
she'd felt, and she loved it. Her ordered drinks without consulting
her. He chose a table, picked her chair. And his hands never left her.
He was always touching her somewhere - flattening her tit to his upper
arm and gripping her ass cheek while they walked. Under the table, her
legs fell apart as he pushed her panties into her parted slit with two
fingers.

He told her to watch the other two white girls. The blonde was dancing.
The music was a low, slow wail. She clung to her man, dry humping him,
long red nails gripping the back of his neck. When she pulled away from
his kiss, her smeared lipstick reminded Helen of blood. The couple
vanished shortly after the song ended. The blonde re-appeared, dancing
with someone else, an hour later.

The redhead was shorter and more voluptuous. She wore a green sequined
tank top which barely contained her mammoth globes. The black leather
slacks fit like skin. As she moved, with the grace of a gazelle in the
thigh high fetish boots, Helen sometimes saw the shape of her pussy
lips. Her makeup, especially her eyes, was ornate. Mike made Helen tell
him what she was seeing, fondling her all the while. As she told him,
he brought her closer and closer to orgasm, finally giving her the
release she was nearly mad for. She gripped the table edge and
shuddered. Anyone watching certainly knew what was happening. Mike put
it into whispered words for them all. "The little white slut's
cumming."

The second place was a strip club. The dancers were all white, the
patrons all black. The girls were all quite obviously whores, dependent
upon a different dance for the bulk of their livelihood. Mike said
nothing, and appeared to ignore her. He whistled and shouted
obscenities at the strippers - with his hand back in my wife's
throbbing pussy. She saw that he was attracted to the raunchiest of the
dancers, the ones who wore more makeup and kinkier outfits. Pure and
innocent didn't interest him, nor did nurses or athletes. Sluts. That
what he liked. That's what he called her. That's what he wanted her to
be. And she was so totally lost in what she was feeling that she knew
that's what she was. She came again. This time, she grabbed his wrist
with both hands and humped his fingers. She leaned forward and hissed
at him. "Watch, honey. Your cunt's cumming again. Cumming good."

He chuckled again, with condescention, though not cruelty. "So you
think you're as hot as those other girls?" He broke her grip on his
wrist, forced one of her hands onto the swelling in his slacks. "You
think you deserve my big black cock?"

She squeezed his thick rod, slid her hand up and down his length, and
nodded as seductively as she could. "I'll fuck you blind," she told
him. "I'll suck you dry. I'll let you do anything to me you want to."

His test for her was taking her virgin ass. All she did was ask her if
he wanted to fuck it right there in the bar.

An hour later, it was a done deal in the back seat of his car. It
wasn't brutal. He made sure she wanted it with every fibre of her being
before gently entering her thoroughly lubed hole. She felt ripped
apart, but was so entranced by the utter depravity of what was
happening in that parking lot, with the windows down, that she began
cumming long before Mike did and stopped only after he'd softened and
pulled out of her sore hole.

And then it'd been off to the third stop. She was only mildly surprised
when the bar was in the middle of a block devoted to porn shops and
adult theaters. The streets thronged with hookers of every shape, color
and age imaginable. They eyed her with the look of a female panther
sizing up competition. With cum dripping from both her cunt and
asshole, her teased hair tangled by passion, she felt a sort of kinship
to them. She let her ass sway, felt the sleazy slickness on her thighs,
and cupped Mike's ass just like he was holding hers.

After a single quick drink, he said he was going next door for some
action. She scrambled behind him and asked him what he meant. He
stopped, turned, and told her there was usually a white bitch in the
booth section of the bookstore giving head to anyone who wanted her.

She knew what he was saying, and nodded her head. "Let's go."

There hadn't been any other girl, nor a line of guys. But Helen sucked
Mike in a tiny room with a porn movie flickering on the TV until he
spewed cum all over her face.

With the cum still wet on her skin and dress, he'd led her back onto
the street, back to the car. She'd called me from a phone booth before
going back to his apartment. There he'd fucked her dry, through so many
orgasms she couldn't tell when one ended and the next began.

It's ten a.m. Saturday, two weeks later. Our daughter, Laurali, is
watching her favorite movie. The hero is singing, "It isn't easy being
green." That's what I am - with envy. Helen has another date with Mike.
He's picking her up at noon. Again. I've been expressly un-invited. She
doesn't expect to be back until about this time tomorrow. The fib we've
come up with to explain things to the kids is that she had to attend a
series of nursing meetings in a nearby city. I wonder if this new
overnight date is going to become the norm.

Helen is behaving strangely. She been insanely horny since Mike phoned
her Wednesday, flatly ordering her to be available. We've fucked until
I'm sore, and she's repeatedly masturbated herself into oblivion with
her favorite long black dildo. She's also terrified. The pungent mix of
fear and excitement has made it almost impossible for her to get
anything done. We've fantasized, over and over, about their last foray,
and speculated about what her lover might have in store for this one.

It's just after midnight, early Monday morning. Helen's asleep - passed
out is really more accurate. She didn't get home until after I'd put
the kids to bed, which is fortunate. I'd lied to them about her
business trip being extended, and they'd bought it, but there'd have
been no way to explain her appearance when she finally strutted through
the front door. She was obviously terrified that the rug rats would
still be awake, but Mike had kept the clothes she'd left the house in,
leaving her no options.

She was wearing a too-small black leather halter top and matching micro
skirt, thigh-high hose, and platform heels that made her as tall as I
am. What looked suspiciously like fresh sperm gleamed on her upper
thighs. Her hair had been tinted as black as her leather, and curled.
Her eyes bore false lashes and heavy dark shadow. Her searing red
lipstick and hooked scarlet nails glared wetly. Long silver earrings
dangled nearly to her bared shoulders. I was too flabbergasted to speak
as she dropped an oversized black purse, approached me, turned her back
and wordlessly bent forward from the waist. She wore no panties. The
skirt was so short that her ass and pussy were completely exposed. The
cum was leaking from her slightly distended, reddened asshole. Her cunt
had been completely shaved. Her labia were engorged and gaped wetly.

I accepted the unspoken invitation, sampling both of her holes as she
began the story of her weekend in a raw, hoarse voice that was barely
recognizable as her own. Her cunt felt as different as it looked. It
was loose around my cock. Her ass was much tighter, and being fucked
there obviously caused her no pain.

They'd begun their time together by returning to the mall where Mike
had bought her the first outfit. But the boutique had been the second
stop. The salon where she'd had her hair, nails, face, and cunt waxing
done had come first. He'd explained exactly what he was having done to
her, then left to take care of some business. The black beauticians
who'd tended to her treated her like white trash, mocking her for the
entire three hours she'd been there. They began something which endured
for her entire date; not once was she called by her name. Cunt, bitch,
whore and slut were the only terms ever used to summon her.

Mike hadn't returned by the time they were finished with her abusive
transformation, but they ordered her to the boutique. The women there
continued to pile shame upon her, mocking her sleaziness and amplifying
it by their choice of clothing for her to try on. They settled on two
outfits - the one she was wearing and a turquoise ensemble made of
lycra which left as little to the imagination as the leather.

Mike still hadn't returned. Wearing the blue lycra outfit, she was
pushed from the shop and told to sit her cheap ass down in a sports bar
at the far side of the mall.

Until that point, she'd been given no freedom, little opportunity for
clear thought. Her humiliation had been relatively private, and there'd
been at least the illusion of having to follow someone's orders at all
times. But the bar was an entirely different environment. She was free.
She could call a halt to her exposure and mistreatment simply by
calling a cab and coming home. She didn't. Garishly made up and
scantily dressed, she knew she looked like a hooker trolling for an
early trick. And that's exactly the way she was treated. The bartender
registered intense disapproval and the clientele an equally intense
interest. Four times within the half hour she waited, she was
approached and asked how much it'd take to get into her panties. By the
time Mike came to claim her, she was a nervous wreck, though her
nipples were visibly rigid and her shorn cunt itchily wet.

Her date made her stand and turn for his inspection. "Not bad for a
white slut," he announced loudly before leading the way out to his car.
There, in the waning daylight, he demanded a blowjob. She didn't
hesitate. She inhaled his long ebony rod like she was starving for it,
which was exactly the way she felt. From that moment until he delivered
her to our doorstep, the woman who was my wife ceased to exist. In her
place was the wanton, lewd whore Mike wanted her to be. She acted
exactly the way she looked. As Mike again demanded her to do, she
thought only with her cunt.

They ate a leisurely meal in a swank dinner club. Her appetite was nil.
Mike joked about her being a more prime piece of meat than anything on
the menu. Afterwards, they picked up where they'd left off the time
before - in the adult bookstore. This time, there *was* a white cunt in
the booths giving head to all comers - my wife. Mike guarded the door
and coached her between face fucks. She had to freshen her makeup and
wipe as much cum as possible off herself and her dress between
visitors. She admitted that she lost count of the number of men he sent
her after the first seven, but she thought there'd been about a dozen.
All had been black and varied in size between average and immense.
She'd been surprised to find that each one's sperm varied, as well, in
taste and texture.

Squatting on the sticky floor of the dark booth, with the sounds of
pornographic films penetrating the walls to either side of her, faced
by what seemed to be an endless line of black men, had had a strange
effect on her. She felt like she'd become a mindless sex toy, a puppet
dangling by her smeared lips on the end of whatever cock was in her
face. She'd become crazed with lust. She'd begged Mike to let them fuck
her or at least use her hands to get herself off. He'd pushed her back
to her knees and vowed to handcuff her if she couldn't control her
fingers. She came twice, anyway, untouched.

When he told her it was over, it took her a few moments to understand.
She reflexively used her compact mirror and the lipstick privided by
the beauticians to repair herself, then Mike led her from the gloomy
darkness into the blindingly lit shop. He stopped her in front of a
large mirror and made her look at herself.

Despite her efforts with handiwipes from her gym-bag sized purse,
tendrils of sperm had spattered her hair and dress. Her hose were
ruined. And, seeing herself, her thin red lips shaped a smile that
begged for more of the same treatment. Mike waved a sheaf of bills
before her glazed eyes. Her earnings, he informed her. A start on
payback for the clothes and makeover.

That announcement staggered her. She'd fucked men she'd never met
before. Once, she'd even entertained two nameless strangers at the same
time. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined selling herself.
Her smile faltered, until she saw the heated way Mike was devouring her
with his eyes. She pressed herself tightly against him, rubbing her
cunt against the huge bulge in his slacks.

"I bet I owe you a lot more, honey," she panted toward his lips. "We'd
better get moving if I'm going make it all back for you."

He leered down at her. "It really makes you hot, doesn't it, slut? The
dirtier you are, the more you like it."

And more of the same is exactly what she got. In a pool hall, he
announced that his whore could be had. Twenty for a head job. Fifty for
a straight fuck. Seventy-five for her asshole. They kept her busy in a
back room until the wee hours of the morning. The feeling of being a
sex toy, a series of holes made to be fucked, became her universe.
Home, husband and children were totally forgotten. She was nothing but
Mike's moneymaking whore - always had been, always would be.

When it was over, she couldn't walk. Mike had sat beside her on the cot
in the back room and tenderly sponge bathed her while she rested. She
thanked him so many times she felt foolish, then begged him to fuck her
himself. He declined. "Later," was the only response she could elicit
from her lover, her pimp.

Later finally arrived. In his apartment after she'd thoroughly cleaned
up. She cooed and crooned as he tenderly fucked first her distended
pussy, then her stretched ass. After filling her anus with its fourth
dose of cum of the night, he fell asleep. Before joining him, she put
the turquoise dress to soak in the bathtub.

She awoke at two Sunday afternoon to a face full of hard black prick
and nursed from it like a baby does a breakfast bottle. Mike ordered
her to paint herself appropriately and get into the black clothes. He
fed her a more standard breakfast in a restaurant. She was already
getting overheated, sitting there amongst the rest of the diners in the
full light of day looking exactly like what she'd become - a cheap
whore. After leisurely redoing her face in the restroom, my dear wife
rubbed herself to a quick climax while staring raptly into the mirror.

The moment Mike turned into the underground garage of a cut-rate
downtown hotel, Helen threw her face onto her pimp's cock without
invitation. She writhed madly on his meat, trying to force the entire
length down her throat. Just the thought of what was coming was enough
to incite another rolling orgasm.

He established her in a hotel room and she began fucking again. Mike
made her responsible for collecting his money this time. Her worth had
apparently increased. Her fees now started at seventy five and
increased proportionately. There were only three clients, with plenty
of time in between for reflection. She was alternately wracked with
guilt and flushed with lust. Being turned into a whore had never been
one of her fantasies, but she found it terrifyingly satisfying. She was
overwhelmed by the certainty that, if Mike asked her to, she'd
willingly forget her previous existence and responsibilities - husband,
chilren, home, and career - and let him turn her out full time.

The request didn't come. He collected her at eight that evening, fed
her a light dinner, then ass-fucked her in an alley before bringing her
home. As she climbed from the car, he informed her that he'd be in
touch, and handed her a sealed letter addressed to me.

Because my fucked-crazed whore-wife has access to this file, I won't
transcribe his words here. Suffice it to say that I found Mike's note
very interesting.

It's been a month since Helen's last foray. Before making any
decisions, I chose to wait and see how she adjusted - or failed to
adapt - to her experiences as Mike's whore.

She was moody for the first week, obviously feeling some remorse. But
she didn't cut off her long ceramic nails. Rather, she kept their fiery
red enamel fresh as wet blood. Nor did she return her hair color to the
familiar subdued brown hue she was born with. Neither change drew an
undue amount of notice from co-workers or friends. Physically, there
was little else to note.

Sexually, however, there were differences. While her denuded cunt
resumed its former tightness, every time I probed it, I found it wet.
Even at the most inopportune moments, she was primed and ready to fuck
in whatever manner I asked for. She was tremendously orgasmic, as well.
I don't believe she ever got off less than twice while I balled her,
and I did that at least twice each day.

Sometime during the second week, she apparently came to grips with what
she'd done. The moodiness vanished. Still, she wasn't quite the same
Helen as the woman who'd walked out the door and allowed her lover to
sell her holes to strangers. While it was most certainly too subtle for
others to see, I noted a perpetual hooded quality to her eyes. She
definitely looked at men in a different light. Additionally, her taste
in makeup and her daily attire altered a bit. Nothing too obvious,
nothing outright slutty, but she seemed to feel naked without at least
a lick more mascara and eyeshadow than had been her norm, and her lips
were almost never unglossed. Not once did I see her wearing slacks, and
her legs were seldom without nylons.

That Saturday evening, with the kids at friends' for the night, I
teasingly suggested she model the turquoise outfit for me, since I
never seen it. Merely the suggestion made her eyes glaze and breath
catch. Her reply was to lean in and bestow upon me a wet, open lipped
kiss steamy enough to melt an iceberg.

"You want the full treatment?" she breathed as she slowly ended the
embrace.

"Down to the last detail," I said, gently stroking a suddenly
hard-nippled tit.

As she swayed toward the bedroom with loosened hips, I couldn't avoid
recalling her the way she'd returned to me two weeks before.

I spent the hour-plus that it took her to make herself ready by
allowing myself to begin to formulate a plan. Mike had some worthwhile
ideas, but I thought they could be improved upon. His imagination
seemed slightly more limited than mine.

I heard her before I saw her. The heels she wore were tipped with
metal, announcing her approach. She looked breathtaking. The electric
blue robin's egg hued lyrca minidress was moulded to her flesh, causing
her modest sized tits to swell dramatically from the low cut neckline.
Its hem was barely long enough to cover the band topping the
self-supporting silver hose. The blue-green shoes had silver spikes
fully five inches tall.

She'd done something to her midnight mane that caused it to surround
her head like a shimmering cloud. Her lashes were so long and thick she
seemed unable to fully open her eyes. As she came nearer, I could see
the wide black liner encircling them, the purple and blue and silver
decoration of her lids. Her lips bore a red paint so wet it might have
been glass. Dangling from the matching claws of her right hand was a
long blue cigarette. She stopped five feet away, her heels planted
wide, and took a skillful drag from the tobacco.

Her words were smoky. Even her voice was different. "So what do you
think, baby? Good enough to fuck?"

I did that with my eyes. "Mike's been undercharging for you, whore. If
you're half as good as you look, you're worth five hundred, minimum."

Her laugh was throaty. "Well, he didn't exactly send me doctors and
lawyers, you know. I'm sure he charged what the traffic would bear."

We screwed most of the night away. Even after the homecoming
performance of two weeks ago, I wasn't prepared for her total
whorishness. She definitely donned an attitude along with her working
clothes and makeup. She was boundless in her sluttiness, begging in
both word and deed to be used as the fucktoy she truly was. I gleefully
obliged. She didn't need to be told to clean herself up between
sessions, although she did seem to take her sweet time about staring
into the mirror, absorbing her fresh-fucked look, before repairing the
damage.

Long before the end of the night, I'd made up my mind. If I'd told her
to drive to the red-light district and peddle her ass on some
streetcorner, she'd have complied without objection.

Sunday, I put the wheels in motion. By this time next week, it'll be a
done deal.

Everything went perfectly. Helen's in our bed, recovering. She hasn't
come out from under the anesthetic yet, and I'm not entirely sure how
she'll react. I *am* sure that she'll eventually be overjoyed.

It wasn't exactly ethical to not tell her beforehand, or to drug her
into a dumb stupor before driving her to the clinic late last night. I
was inspired to perform what's no doubt the best work of my career. The
hours flew by, and I didn't get her home until nearly dawn.

Even with all the swelling, I can clearly picture how she'll look in
the new working clothes Mike gave me a down payment for. The perfectly
firm and realistic 36-C breasts will overflow her sleazy dresses. Her
liposuctioned waistline will make her seem corsetted at all times. Her
thick red Kim Bassinger lips will beckon wetly for the all cocks she'll
suck. She'll feel much more at ease in the tallest of high heels.

She'll be working for Mike and I two weekends a month - and not for
nickels and dimes in porn stores or fleabag hotels, either. Nothing but
high rollers for my whore. After all, now she has her plastic surgery
to pay for.