My cunt gets wet whenever I think about it. If I try to gain some self-control and not think about it, I gush like Niagara Falls. The self-denial makes me soaked. When I reminisce about all the filthy, nasty things I’ve done with it, my hand moves across my stomach and slithers between my legs, the fingertips slowly stroking up and down my slit, teasing my drenched pussy lips. As I imagine all the things I want to do with it, those fingers, now coated with sex honey, slide up and rub slick, hard circles over my clit. By the time I’m swearing to myself that it’s wrong, I’ll never do it again, at least two fingers from my other hand will be roughly plunging into my aching cunt, thrusting into my hole, fucking myself into oblivion.

A second life, a secret identity, an alter-ego, that’s what it is to me. To anyone else, it’s just a long, blond wig that I purchased, on an impulse, in a second-hand store. That nonsensical purchase changed my life forever.

Outwardly, I was living the American dream. Married to a successful businessman, with a large house and luxurious life, everyone believed that I had it all and was gloriously happy. I was, indeed, happy, but happiness and fulfillment are not mutually inclusive.

My husband travels as a consultant—always living in hotels and commuting by international flights. Our romance was conventional, our wedding traditional, our marriage sociable and pleasant. Comfortable. Although college-educated, I quickly fell into the role of the supportive, stay-at-home, trophy wife. I was the somewhat sexy, sweet, gracious, bubbly, and friendly wife, fully invested in supporting my husband’s career. With him being away for two-thirds of any given month, I kept myself occupied with hobbies and projects and had a love affair with his money. Devoid of children, I kept an immaculate house and a pristine yard.

We even owned a rental property, near the city, consisting of four townhouses that I rented out for extra, residual income, although one unit was perpetually vacant. I kept the vacant unit tastefully furnished and decorated, often remodeling the interior. When another vacancy would be opening up, I’d show potential tenants the decorated one to entice them. Decorating the show unit and being a landlady were some of the myriad projects I maintained to occupy my time.

Our sex life was satisfactory, even if a little predictable. My husband would be home for maybe one weekend every month, plus a few random days here and there. Again, comfortable, albeit predictable. It would always be dinner, our conversation centered upon his work, a few platitudes thrown my way about what was going on in my life, and then home, after a few drinks. Tender, gentle sex in the bedroom, always with the lights off, invariably followed. We were faithful to each other, so far as I knew, and satisfied with our life together. Everyone, including me, was convinced that we had the perfect, happy life. That is until I bought the wig.

I was spending the day shopping, a preferred hobby, taking full advantage of a credit card with no maximum limit, and keeping an eye out for a nice showpiece to put on the mantle in the townhouse. Second-hand stores sometimes have such unique treasures. They also occasionally house unexpected delights, true hidden treasures that one cannot find at retail outlets. It was also across the lot from the grocery store I planned on shopping at, later. I wanted something new and unique for my dinner.

I was dressed demurely, befitting my social standing, in a tasteful, yellow sundress with white, floral designs. It was an attractive but modestly cut dress. Cute, little sandals wrapped my feet; a matching designer purse hung from one shoulder. My medium-brown hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, my makeup attractive but not too sexy. I was happily married and not looking to impress anyone, let alone invite unwanted sexual attention.

I took my time, leisurely browsing through the endless racks of gently used clothing, bric-a-brac, sundries, and forsaken heirlooms. I discovered a darling little blue dress that appealed to me for some reason, but no tasteful item for the mantle. Cut with a nice taper, made of fine, multicolored cotton, the dress had a perfectly rounded neck that showed just a bit of one’s chest and a long, symmetrical skirt, ending at the calves. While otherwise a simple frock, the dress had a multitude of snaps, every inch or so, that went from the neckline all the way down. The fabric was a mottled, random pattern of varying blue hues.

The retail tags were still attached, and it was possibly in my size. From my chest down, I can usually fit into a size seven dress, thanks to yoga and going to the gym three times per week. My bust, however, makes me a bit top-heavy. Accounting for my ample breasts, my tops typically need to be a size eight or nine. Depending on the garment, I can sometimes fit into a size seven, sometimes an eight. If it fits me up top, the bottom tends to be too loose. Off-the-rack garments either gave me the option of fitting down below, drawing major attention to my breasts, or fitting my upper body and billowing out beneath me like a tent. This was a size seven; I hoped it would fit.

I took the dress and headed toward the dressing room to try it on. That’s when the wig caught my eye. It was draped over a mannequin head floating atop a sea of abandoned hats that were strewn atop a boys’ clothing rack. Raising above the ball caps, creased fedoras, and nonsensical novelty hats, it shone like a yellow-blond sun. This was no costume shop wig; it appeared to be made from real hair, or at least a high-quality synthetic. It was long, very long, the golden, snaking waves of platinum blond weaving between the clutter of the hats. The bangs were swept aside, falling across the cartoon-like head in feathered curls, draping back seductively. I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to touch it, remove it from its forlorn display, and straighten out the slightly tangled tresses.

In my hands, the wig felt real, sensual, and delightful. Holding it before me, the chosen dress hanging over my extended arm, the gently curling back of the wig hung down to my waist. Long, wavy curls with loose ringlets and a deep, center part, gave it a “movie star” vibe. On a whim, I decided to see how I looked in the wig and took it along with me into the changing room. I mentally justified that, because my husband calls me his “angel,” I’d dress up as an angel for Halloween this fall. The wig might work for that.

The store’s attendants knew me as a frequent shopper and mostly left me to my own devices; I just held up the dress, pointing to the changing room, received a nod, and she went back to scrolling through her phone, her earbuds sticking out of her head like antennas. I went to the last of the four dressing rooms, locked it, and smiled at myself in the full-length mirror, hanging my purse from the clothing peg. The stereo system that pipes the music throughout the store, a classic rock radio station, is right above the dressing room ceiling. A song I used to love was playing, not extremely loud, but loud enough that a normal speaking voice was drowned out to anyone not standing right in front of the dressing room door.

Shirking out of my yellow dress, hanging it on the hook over the purse, I poured myself into the blue dress. My generous bust strained the top snaps, slightly gaping the fabric. From the chest down, it was also a tight fit. The multicolored, blue material hugged my slender waist and poured like liquid over the swell of my hips. The midriff was contour-hugging and clung vertically to my taut stomach, the product of thousands of crunches. I undid the top three snaps at the top, revealing more cleavage than I like to show. However, I was able to breathe without popping snaps.

I admired myself in the mirror, swaying to the music and checking my garment lines. The lines of my bikini-cut panties could be seen, but, still, I loved the dress. A few test steps revealed that walking in it, as tightly as it clung to my flesh, was not easy to do. Unsnapping the bottom eleven or so snaps, allowing the front slit to go above my knees, facilitated the basic necessity of walking. It was sexier than I typically wear, actually kind of slutty, but my mind invented reasons to purchase the dress, countering the logical observations of it being too slutty and not fitting correctly.

As I moved to and fro in front of the mirror, the bright yellow blond of the wig caught my eye. I had set it on the bench seat, my body hiding it from the mirror until I moved. Smirking to myself that it was silly, I turned around, bent over, and untangled the hair of the wig with my fingers. Removing my ponytail binder and swirling my hair to lay flat atop my head, I put on, then straightened, the wig. It was, surprisingly, a perfect, comfortable fit. The interior netting clung to my real hair, locking it in place. The long, wavy curls delicately caressed my back as I shook my head, letting the blond locks fall where they may. Then, I turned to appraise myself as a blond.

As soon as I saw my reflection, I was stunned and mesmerized. Something as simple as changing my hair color, style, and length completely transformed me. Louise, the conventional housewife, was not staring back at me. At first glance, I seemed magnetically attractive; a more intense stare gave the impression of smoldering sensuality, barely contained. I looked like a femme fatale, a sexy lounge singer, a high-class call-girl. Standing there, looking at myself in the mirror, I was reminded of the cover of an adult movie, the heroine dressed to attract, obviously needing a hard cock inside her.

“You’re not Louise, are you?” I declared to the image, a sultry, seductive smile coming, unbidden, to my lips. “You’re more like a Luna, like lunatic, or a Lana.” Yes! Lana.

A person like me would never wear her hair long and sweeping in feathery waves with such a brassy, brazenly attention-seeking color. Louise would never dress in a sexy, skimpy, figure-hugging dress that advertised her feminine, top-heavy figure with half her tits on display. Lana would. It made her horny. Lana was a sex kitten, owned her sexuality, and was a wild slut. In the wig, I didn’t see a potential angel costume, I saw a kinky devil in a tight, blue dress.

While not prone to prancing and posing, playing make-believe in front of a mirror, I did just that. I posed as sexily as I could muster, bending over to see how my butt…no, that’s not right. Lana would call it her ass…looked. Lana wouldn’t suffer panty lines; she’d wear only a wisp of a thong or go without. I stripped off the panties, noting that they were more than damp, and stuffed them into my purse. My yellow dress fell to the floor, but I didn’t care.

With my back to the mirror, my head turned to see, I didn’t, at all, look like myself from behind. The golden tresses hung down to the small of my back, making my tapering curves seem so much more desirable. The cheeks of my ass were snug against the fabric. I gyrated my hips, noting how my firm behind only jiggled slightly. The thought that one cannot quite tell whether I’m wearing any panties captivated me. It was so sexy, so naughty. I felt a warmth growing between my thighs, arousal I hadn’t felt in so long that I’d forgotten that I could feel so horny.

Turning back to face the mirror, I saw a glint in my hazel eyes that hinted at a mischievous, dirty mind. Pulling the sides and bangs forward, draping them over my ample chest, I stuck my breasts out…no, my tits, Lana has tits…and admired the valley between my two boobs. The tight dress pushed my tits in and up, making them look like balloons ready to burst. The cut of the garment was tailored to give some separation. It looked like I had gotten a boob job.

To better admire the view of this blond version of myself, I bent forward, stunned at the vision. I was a sexy boudoir model, knowing that she was going to seduce her photographer. The fantasy of me being desired by a camera’s lens played through my mind as I posed. I cupped my breasts, lifting them up higher, marveling at the blond hair cascading over my smooth, exposed skin. One, then another, then yet another snap popped open under the flicking of my manicured fingers. The effect was amazing.

I’d never dress like this, but Lana would, and she loved the attention. That pesky, visible bra strap had to go, though. A few more snaps undone, and my entire chest spilled out, bra exposed. I struggled slightly, my fingers under the taut fabric behind my back, and unhooked the brassier. It joined my wet panties in my purse, me not even noticing that I trod upon my dress.

As I turned back towards the mirror, I gasped when I saw myself, or, rather, Lana. The woman before me was the personification of humanity’s need to fuck. She was all sex, unbridled passion, and utter desire. I took a step closer to get a better view; the dress was still too tight around my legs. More snaps, more than halfway up my thigh, were undone. My pussy had heated the air under the dress to volcanic levels. With her slightly large tits out, still full, round, and firm, she looked like a horny Godiva with the long, blond tendrils partially covering the swells of her tits. My nipples, Lana’s nipples, were sticking out between tufts of blond waves, little bumps on the swollen and puffy areolas. Pulling one up towards my mouth, my tongue flicked out and swirled over the hard nub. An electric jolt shot from my nipple and down my spine, sending shivers through my body, doubling the heat between my legs.

I imagined Lana, me in that wig, going grocery shopping. She'd proudly strut her stuff, maybe even count the number of guys that stare at her. Braless, no panties to get in the way, she’d stretch, wiggle, and bend, basking in her glorious, sexual power over men. Women like my reflection were exactly why men felt the need to slam their hard cocks into hot, wet holes. The slutty blond vixen before me was the reason that women lust after each other.

My hands, the nails perfectly shaped and brightly colored, rubbed the tickling, blond hair over my exposed tits. The sensation was thrilling, reminding me of silk being gently slid across flesh. I straightened up and admired myself. I looked slutty but still captivating, infinitely sexy. A soft moan, drowned out by the music playing above me, escaped my lips as Lana’s manicured fingers squeezed a hardened nipple between them.

I never considered myself narcissistic and am not into women, as conventional society kept even the thought of such things far from my mind, but the blond bombshell in front of me, standing there playing with her tits, her hips slowly pumping back and forth, made me want sex. As if possessed by sexual demons, I stomped the three steps back, planting my ass on the bench. My legs spread of their own accord, showing the arousal glistening on my pussy lips. I had shaved my pussy completely bare, less than a week ago, in an attempt to spice up our love life. My husband, home for just one night, didn’t notice or even comment when I walked out of the bathroom totally nude except for perfume. I lusted over Lana’s lack of pubic hair and salivated at the sight.

Wrapping strands of blond around my nipple, sucking it into my mouth, my tongue gave delightful, quivering sensations as it played over the hair, sending my nipples into even higher sensitivity. My hands quickly ran up my thighs. My skin was burning hot to the touch, soaked with hot, creamy fluid near my crotch. One finger traced the dew on my pussy lips, my other hand caressing the firmness of my torso. Possessed by this imaginary, slutty woman, Lana decided that she wanted an orgasm.

With my legs spread wide, lusting over the whore in the mirror, I plunged two fingers into my aching snatch, the squishing sounds adding to the raunchy hotness of masturbating in public. My teeth bit into my nipple, sucking on it as hard as I could. A third finger joined the first two, fucking my dripping cunt roughly. My free hand tore at my clit, tugging, pulling, and squeezing so hard that my fingers hurt. All the while, my eyes were locked on the slutty, blond version of myself in the mirror.

Enthralled, I watched my hand plunge into my hot pussy, seeing my wetness ooze from my soaked fingers, wetting the bench. My right hand was a blur, pummeling my clit with intensity and speed. As my gaze fixated on the tit in my mouth, the blond hair cocooning it, my hips began to buck, and my hips fucked my hand back, shoving forward to meet every thrust.

When I locked eyes with my reflection, the blond’s face awash with ecstasy, I lost all control and came in an intense orgasm that vibrated my entire body and slammed into my soul.

“Aaah, fuck, cumming, so hard,” I announced, my voice probably louder than the music.

An endless series of convulsions shook my body, the extreme pleasure of my orgasm never once subsiding. My vision blackened; only whimpering moans escaped my open mouth. Spittle covered my throbbing nipple and breast.

After the most intense orgasm I’d ever felt subsided, I slouched on the bench until I could breathe normally once more. All the while, Lana was staring back at me from the mirror, a lusty, sated smile on her face, her cheeks flushed from her blissful release. Lana loved to cum, I decided. She loves sex more than anything and isn’t afraid to admit it. Forget the cares of society; if they don’t like her promiscuity, they can eat out her ass while she licks pussy.

Finally regaining my composure, I laughed when I saw that my yellow dress was soiled. The floor was clean enough, but I had trampled it several times while posing and playing. Into the purse, along with my underwear, it went. The cashier didn’t give me so much as a sideways glance or a raised eyebrow when I explained that I was going to wear the dress out. I paid and strutted out, the blond, slutty wig crowning me.

Normally I walk, conscientious of moving with grace and poise. Mastered by the will of Lana, I strutted. My hips swayed exaggeratedly, each step crossing over my other leg to achieve the perfect wiggle. Freed from the confines of underwear, my tits jiggled and bobbed. The fabric of the dress felt divine against my bare, still rock-hard nipples, each step sending little shivers of pleasure into my breasts. Donning my wayfarer sunglasses, I caught my image in a storefront window. I looked like hot sex cruising for action. My emotional state matched the look.

It was time to pick up something for dinner. In true Lana fashion, I counted the number of stares as I walked across the parking lot. Three men and one woman stopped to admire my sexy body, my identity transformed by the blond wig.

As I walked, I could all but hear the mental drum beats and cymbal crashes accompanying my gait. Boom-da-boom, boom-boom, crash.

My legs thrust out from beneath the long, center slit, drawing one’s eyes upward to my treasure trove, just barely denying the reward of a view of my promised land. My ass bounced, only once per step, no warbling, the muscular cheeks pressing themselves against the blue fabric. Every footfall caused my breasts to bounce, my nipples stimulated as my tits slid up and down beneath the dress. Although I had just cum, my cunt started throbbing, again, overheating with this release of untamed sexuality. It wasn’t me; Lana was in the driver’s seat, steering my body into a collision with a lusty release.

As I entered, the overly cool air conditioning teasing my pointy nipples to even more prominence, I felt, but ignored, all the eyes upon me. While usually very aware of walking like a proper lady, I ignored my socially graceful poise and sashayed over to the empty carts, giggling at the jiggle of my tits and the multitude of lusty eyes fixated upon them.

Lana was in control and I was willingly submitting to her desires. Catching myself now and then in the security mirrors, I looked stripper-hot, sultry, wanton. I stopped counting the leers of others after twenty or so; I was too caught up in feeling free. In the produce section, a large cucumber in my hand, I debated making a large salad for dinner. Grasping the green shaft and seeing how thick and robust it felt in my hand, I wondered what it would be like to be fucked by a man so endowed.

A husky, sultry voice, whispered in my mind’s ear, “Lana wouldn’t need a man, she’d buy it and fuck herself with it.” My blond alter-ego was already being a succubus, whispering dirty, sordid ideas to me. I smiled as I put the cucumber into my cart, not to eat, but to play with, later.

Suddenly, shocking me to paralyzed stillness, I felt a firm, manly hand grasping my ass. I inhaled sharply, part of me wanted to scream for help, but I instinctively pushed my ass back into the hand. The unseen hand from an unknown stranger didn’t linger; it swept up my back, brushing my blond hair aside, then reached around my torso, squeezing my firm stomach before a second hand joined the first. Both of those hands rose and grabbed handfuls of my breasts. As he did this, a pleasant, sexy, deep voice whispered into my ear.

“I thought you said you were leaving town, Becky. I’m glad I saw you, I want you, again, before you leave.”

I felt his crotch pressing into my behind. The thought that I’m married and should be repulsed and offended was quickly vanquished by the observation that he either had a medium-sized cock that was already hard, or he was hung like the cucumber I planned on masturbating with later. I would say that I don’t know what came over me, but Lana came over me; lust consumed me.

I turned, a look of indignation on my face. “Just who the fuck do you think you are?” I scolded. Louise the housewife hardly ever said, “damn,” let alone drop the F-bomb. Lana cursed and swore like a sailor.

His face was aghast, ashen, pallid when he realized that I was not Becky.

He stammered out an apology. “I’m, uh, I’m so sorry! From behind, you’re so perfect, I thought you were my old girlfriend, You two look a lot alike, at least from behind. Believe me,” he consoled, “I love women. If I knew better, I’d have never…”

As he backtracked, I pulled out the cucumber, letting my face show humor. When I pressed the big, long cucumber against his crotch to compare sizes, his voice trailed off.

“And you are?” I raised one eyebrow.

“Bill, I mean William. Call me Bill.” He held out one of his big, strong, manly hands for me to shake. “Please, let me make it up to you.”

A thousand raunchy retorts ran through my head, Lana’s dirty mind. Instead, I took his hand and pulled it toward my chest, placing his palm over my hot, horny tit. “Does your Becky have tits like this?”

Bill blushed a deep crimson. He shook his head negatively.

I grabbed his hand, not caring who might see, and thrust it through the slit in my dress, making sure his fingers grazed my dripping-wet cunt. “Does she go without panties, like me, because it makes her horny?”

He opened his mouth, attempting to speak. Only short, raspy pants came out of his mouth.

“This is your lucky day,” I said, reaching out and cupping his cock with my hand. “I need fucked Follow me.”

I shopped at that store frequently. Off to one side, just past the floral department, was a short hallway leading to the restrooms and a large storage closet. I walked as sexily as I could manage, letting the fictional personality of Lana drive my actions. A glance over my shoulder alerted me that he was sheepishly following. With my cart parked near the hall entrance, I waited for him to come around the corner and tried the closet door. It was unlocked.

He stopped, staring at me, as I walked into the storeroom, unsnapping my dress to display my nudity, beneath. My hand ventured to my dripping cunt, playing in the liquid sex, then traced a wet line up my stomach, over my neck and chin, and into my mouth where I hungrily sucked on my cum-soaked finger. Slowly removing the finger from my mouth, it curved in a “come hither” gesture, beckoning him to me.

“Close the door and give me your cock,” was all I needed to say.

As soon as he undid his pants, I attacked him with sexual fervor. I didn’t bother with foreplay, sucking him, or even an introductory kiss. I roughly pulled his pants down, guided his cock into me with a satisfied moan, and wrapped my legs around him.

“Fuck me; fuck me hard. Fuck me like a nasty slut.”

He complied. Stumbling slightly under the weight of my body pulling him down, he lowered me to the cold, concrete floor, my pussy still engulfing his hard, big cock, my hips pumping wildly.

“I, I can’t believe this,” Bill mused. “Who are you?”

“Shut up and fuck me. Ram that hard cock into me.”

We may have been strangers, but our bodies knew how to fuck. My hips thrust up and forward with his every lunge, falling back as he withdrew. The sound of my ass slapping against the concrete floor mixed with my moans and his grunts. Soon, my breathing fell into the rhythm of his cock fucking me. I breathed in as he pulled back, my exhalation coming out in raspy moans and curses as my hips shot up to meet his forceful thrusts.

My husband never fucked me. When we had sex, it was always tender love. This was different, animalistic, primal. I was using him for my sexual pleasure, being used by him for his next orgasm. I didn't want sex, had no use for gentle lovemaking; I needed to be fucked like a cheap whore.

“Fucking cum in me. I need your cum. Fill my cunt with your seed,” I kept repeating. “Yes, I love your cock; I love your cock.”

“I’m cumming,” he groaned.

Bill’s face grew beet red; his face twisted in glorious agony as his hips thrust into me so deeply that his cock went someplace that had never been touched. As soon as the head hit that spot, I could feel a geyser of hot jizz shooting inside me. His ejaculation triggered another earth-shattering orgasm. My manicured nails raked bloody trails down his back. Shaking thighs locked tightly around him, holding him inside of me as I bucked wildly, humping his cock, milking it until I was sated.

When I had finished cumming, I pushed him off of me. I straddled him, standing over his spent body, wiping the combination of my orgasmic fluid and his sticky cum from between my legs. I licked the tincture from my fingers, enjoying the exotic, horny taste. I smeared some of the creamy residue over his smiling lips.

“To answer your question,” I giggled. “I’m Lana. Maybe I’ll see you again.” I stepped over his still-prone body, giving him a long look up my dress, and walked out. Feeling his cum running down my thighs, I paid for my groceries and the prized cucumber and drove home.

During the drive, I removed the wig and guilt ambushed me. After a decade of marriage, I had broken my vows, cheated on my husband, and acted like a slutty porn star. I was mortified, but, still, that didn’t stop my hand from idly stroking my pussy. I felt satisfied for the first time in what seemed like forever. I felt fulfilled.

Never again, I swore to myself. I don’t know what came over me. If I never do it again and never tell my husband, everything will be fine.

Feeling slutty and dirty with shame, I tossed my groceries on the kitchen counter and ran into the master bedroom suite. Forgotten in the cascade of guilty feelings, the wig and cucumber were still in hand. I tossed them on the bed along with my keys and cellphone. Racked with guilt over what I had done, I knew I had to wash away the sin encrusting my inner thighs. Pulling open my new dress, and letting it drop to the floor, I went to draw a hot bath to wash away my infidelity.

Just as I was about to run the water, I noticed that I had no clean towels. I quickly grabbed my red satin robe, a Valentine’s Day surprise for my husband that was pointedly ignored, and covered my nude, cum-covered body as I went back through the bedroom, and headed towards the linen closet.

The sultry, blond wig stood out like a beacon on my bed, contrasting with my tasteful, steel-gray comforter. Determined to never behave remotely like I just had, I donned the wig once more, looking at myself in the vanity mirror.

“I’m Lana, a big whore,” I mused.

My resolve soon eroded. Standing there, my skin glistening, rough, crusty patches of dried semen and my own pussy-juice on my thighs, I noted how sexy I looked. I definitely looked like a horny, nympho slut that had just been fucked hard. The shimmering red satin highlighted my body’s curves and matched the sexual blushing of my cheeks. I relived my public masturbation followed by risky, public sex with a complete stranger. My, rather Lana’s, nipples stood at attention, and fresh, steamy, cunt-juice dripped down my legs, covering the dried jizz.

Just then, my phone rang, pulling me out of my horny reverie. It was my husband with his daily, “Love you, miss you,” call. I fell back on the bed, bouncing once. The view in the vanity mirror reflected spread thighs, glistening cunt, and wisps of blond hair gently tumbling over the red robe. A cold sensation against my thigh contrasted with my body heat; the cucumber had rolled against my bare flesh. I picked up the phone with a sigh, determined to not tell him that his wife had just had a nasty, dirty affair.

“Hi, honey, I was just thinking about you,” I lied.