Blackmailed at First Ch. 03

Not willing to trust anyone who could use intimate relations against me, I had few dates. Except for Peanut and Sharona, I hardly saw anyone socially.

My post-humiliation, divorced personal life changed about two weeks ago, when I got up to answer the door of my small house, down in Ocean Beach, below Point Loma in San Diego, California. As was my habit, I held my cocked Kimber .357 magnum revolver in my hand as I opened the door.

The figure there was female. Very much so. Dressed in a tasteful but very sexy crop-top blouse, extensive bare midriff and a short leather skirt. Close-net stockings and CFM, stiletto-heeled boots, plus a shoulder-strapped leather purse completed the picture I had, standing in front of me. She wore a summer hat with a wide, floppy brim, which concealed her face from my view, above her. A small roller-handle suitcase stood beside her.

Before I could say a questioning word, she said, "Wanna spend a long sexy week with a naked porn star?"

I thought I'd never hear that voice again, as it was Cyndi's. A Cyndi that was 3 years older. A woman that was still slender but had put on some weight in all the right places, at least as far as a male was concerned.

Standing aside, I gestured her to come in, de-cocking and holstering my revolver.

As she swayed inside, pulling her suitcase in behind her, I answered—from my heart—saying, "Yes, I'd like a long sexy week with a mostly naked woman, but I'd most like it with a former wife, who can be a porn star if she wants, but whom I'd like to talk with, look at, cook for, sleep with and cuddle on the couch, too, as well as fuck her brains out."

My ex-wife stopped dead, standing there in the middle of my living room and said, "You mean that? You don't want a whore? You just want a naked woman, like we had before ... before ... like we had ... before ..."

I removed the whole gun-and-holster and put them in a drawer of the endurable, next to the couch. Cyndi raised her eyebrows, so I said, "I don't have anything to fear right now."

She cried out in a small voice, "But you must hate me, after what I did to you, back then ... before ... when I humiliated you in front of ... before ... Oh God, I wasn't gonna cry ... after ... before ..."

The tears came in a rush, as I guided her to the living room couch and got her semi-reclined. No, I didn't strip or rape her. I just let her cry and sob and moan, until the waterworks slowed.

I said, "Cyndi, we'll talk about the past soon, but let's not do the just now. Things are too raw, too emotional to remember that evening and what came after. Just you need to know that, yes, I do trust you with my life, property and body, just not with a marriage, your impulses or your cheating. I don't need a gun for self-protection. I didn't hate you then and I don't now. Oh, yes, bitter disappointment, hurt, anger, sourness, resentment, shame, horror, all of that, but not hate. It was never hate."

She cried more, drooling tears down her face and onto her blouse, soaking into the material and turning parts a little transparent. Eventually the sobbing quieted and then stopped, with sniffling. I offered a box of tissues from the nightstand on either side of the couch, then just sat quietly and waited through the sniffling and the face-patting.

I didn't see any ruined make-up. What kind of an actress—even a porn star—goes out without some make-up?

She looked up, smiled, and said, "I got a little boom box in my case. Ya want a real sexy porn star strip, Mister."

I grinned, and said, "No, Cyndi-with-an-i, I want the same undressing you did when you came home from work. You just took your clothes off and then got mine off. You made us both nude, as soon as you could. You made sure I looked at you. Anything that happened after that was strictly due to your mood at the time. So do that. I'm ready."

I quickly added, "Yes, I also want a really sexy strip and naked porn star sex, but later. When you can plan for it and get set up properly. Actually, I want several strips, with lewd dancing and sexing afterward. Later. Right now, I just want a nude former wife, who can have sex with me if she wants, but who can sit, cuddle while nude and just relax, too."

She said, smiling, "Oh, you're gonna get sex. Hot, wet, ex-wife sex. Then hot, wet, experienced, porn star sex. Dirty, screaming, slobbering, drooling sex. I have a really slutty porn star cunt that you're gonna use every chance I can get you up and inside me. I'm still tight because I exercise, dance and do Kegel exercises."

"But right now, Sir, we'll pretend that I just got home from a good day at work, teaching the kiddies, so here goes, because I remember what you liked."

My still lovely wife, but no longer totally skinny or elfin, unbuttoned the three closures to her tear-dampened crop-top and shrugged it off her shoulders. She wore no bra. Her tits were pretty much like I remembered them, but seemed larger and more prominent. Her nipples were dark red-brown and were growing before my eyes, as she tugged on them, twisting and mauling.

I raised an eyebrow, so she said, "All mine. No silicone. Just used a lot over the years. Yeah, they've gotten bigger, from constant handling. Sensitive as hell, too."

She drew the zipper inside each stiletto-heeled boot down and pulled off each. Starting to roll down the mesh stocking, I held out a hand and shook my head, 'no'.

She grinned wider at that, saying, "Oh, you're gonna like what happens next."

Standing, she slipped open a single button on her short leather skirt and tugged down the zipper. Three wiggles of her hips and the opened material fell to the floor. She kicked it away with one practiced motion.

Her hips were bare. No panties. Nor was there any trace of pubic fur. Her pussy lips were a little swollen. Another hint of her lust was just a trace of shiny liquid seen through the closed slit of her womanhood. Since I was still seated and she was standing, I was within a few inches of this pussy display. Something tiny and light gray ... a little nub ... pocked through her closed pussy lips.

I said, in wonder, "You have a big clit. That's new."

Cyndi-with-an-i said, "No shit, Shurlock, because I've enlarged it with vacuum treatments over the last couple of years. It's also sensitive as hell. Look at me now. Really look at me. I'm down to nude, just like I came home from work and took off all my clothes as soon as I could. So you've got a nude former wife with really sensitive boobs and nips plus a sensitive cunt and clit, almost glowing hot. Now let me get you naked, too."

Men don't strip at all well, unless they're professional dancers and even then, they have to emphasize their big, long cocks. I was nude inside of 2 minutes of pulling, tugging and, in one case of a too-small button, ripping. The biggest problem was getting my boxer shorts off my suddenly huge erection.

It had been a long time since ... nope, let that memory rest, too.

Cyndi settled into the crook of my left arm, which cradled her shoulders and neck, but with my fingers passed over her admitted sensitive boob and nipple. She sighed, snuggled down deeper between me and the couch cushions.

But then she fired a warning shot over the bows, as she said, "Stan, I'm gonna be your sex-slave for my whole visit. You need to punish me and I'll be a good slave and let you do mean, rotten things to me, because I deserve all of that and more."

Firmly, I pressed my forefinger over her about-to-be babbling lips and said, "No, you aren't. I don't need or want a slave. I don't ever want to own another human person. Not even pretend. I don't want you in a porn dungeon. You're going to have to come up with something else to say about yourself.

In a tiny voice, Cyndi said, "Oh my God, how could I ever have thought that you were weak, submissive and a wimp. Why did I ever think ..."

I stopped her, again, as I said, "Because, back then, you didn't think. You just reacted, running on pure, hate-filed emotion. You had some kind of a sick need to punish your man. All that's changed. I can see and hear that. You're not the low self-esteem little girl I married, who turned into a cheating, gang-banging stranger and then ran away. Now you're something else."

"So, little girl, what or who ya gonna be, since I won't let you be a slave?"

Cyndi, face wrinkled up in thought, was silent for only a few moments. Then she grinned up at me, forcing the fingers of my hand to grasp strongly over her naked boob and said, "OK, Mister, I am your your SLUT! Your own personal, private slut! I'll do sex with you anytime, anyway, anyplace, with anybody. I'll let you use any hole you want. You know from my DVDs I swallow cum and do anal, so you've got all that, too. I'll cuddle you, sleep with you, let you take care of me, feed me, suck your cock, go shopping with me, kiss you to death. I'm your SLUT, starting right now! From now on and never forget it."

Then she added, nearly snarling with lust, "Gimmie that cock. I want it in me. Put me on the bottom, right now and fuck me. Don't try to last. Cum in me. Fill me up. I'm clean and can't get pregnant. Don't lick me or feel me up, this first time. Fuck your slut right into this couch, right now."

I did, no lube. None needed, as she was flowing with liquid lust. I fucked her as slow as I could but was banging into her within a couple minutes, and then unloaded 3 years worth of absent-wife-lust jizm. I shot and shot and shot, pulsing both my seed and my frustration, as deep inside that woman as I could get.

While she screamed with orgasm. Cursed with dirty talk. Groaned and heaved. She squirted all over my crotch.

When I finished and made to withdraw, she suddenly—maybe at light speed—grasped my hips with her long, strong legs and held me inside her, snarling, "You keep that monster cock inside me, Mister, as long as it has any hardness at all. Work it, work it. You don't get to have it out of my body until it's so soft it falls out on its own. This is your SLUT talking, and you'd better listen up. The same goes for your hand, lips and tongue wherever you use them. I've got a slutty body and you're gonna use it ... again and again and again."

This was not the Cyndi I remembered. I liked this version better.

I said so.

After our sex, Cyndi went back to cuddling with me, now limp as a cooked noodle. More seriously, she said, "Tomorrow, I'm gonna insist that you handcuff me to a chair and then have your wicked way with me in my ass. If I'm tied up—and I'm so scared of being tied down and forced to have sex, I could throw up all over myself—maybe I can imagine what it was like for you."

"It's gotta be anal, too. Sorry, but your slut has got to do this and you're elected to be my fucker."

Then, so help me, my ex-wife snuggled in closer and fell asleep, snoring a little, with her legs open and dribbling out thick drops of my just-implanted cum onto the towel-covered surface of my living-room couch.

END OF PART 03