Intense, overwhelming feelings of guilt washed over me like violent tidal waves, leaving emotional destruction in their wake. My infidelity fragmented my soul, but I didn’t dare tell him. Tears welled up as I raised my head, glimpsing my blond self in the mirror, legs splayed wide, wet cunt framed by the red satin robe. The sultriness of the woman in the mirror—Lana—quelled any pangs of remorse. Like Marilyn Monroe, she understood that regrets were stupid.

I swore to myself that so long as it never happened again, he didn’t need to know. As I plopped back onto the bed, my left hand grasped the cool, smoothly textured skin of the cucumber. I tried to ignore the heat welling up between my legs, mentally chiding myself for getting horny every time I put on a silly, blond wig. I willed the rising lusty feelings to subside, failed, and discovered that I liked feeling turned on and overheated. That simple, mental confession caused lusty honey to pour from my cunt, filling the room with the musty aroma of sex. I found myself enthusiastically diving into the wild seas of sexual abandon.

My voice sounded huskier than usual, slightly out of breath, sexy. “How are you, dear?” Hearing my voice, a phone sex girl’s slutty, moaning drawl, set my entire body on fire.

“Fine, Louise,” his familiar, detached tone brought me back to reality. He sounded aloof, just going through the motions. It was as if he felt obliged to at least make a tenuous effort at being a good husband, but had other things on his mind. “You know how it goes…” he paused.

The timbre of his voice, the inflection and tone, had changed. He sounded troubled. Momentary panic set in. Did he know? How could he know? Was he spying on me, somehow? I gripped the cucumber, tightly. It felt hard and thick in my grasp.

“Is something bothering you?” I wanted to end the call, quickly, so I could get off but offered my platitudes; the cucumber was enticing me. I, well, Lana, had planned on fucking it. The need to fill my aching hole with it was almost all-consuming.

He sighed. “Roberta,” he began. When he used my actual first name, instead of my preferred, middle name, I knew that something was serious. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Just let it out,” I encouraged. My fingers idly traced the contours of the cucumber. A tiny portion of my mind was listening to my husband, the majority of it anticipating fucking myself with the vegetable.

“I, uh, I’ve been too distant, lately, and I’m sorry.” His tone was very emotional. “I get so wrapped up in work that I’ve been ignoring you. I’m so sorry.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I sat up, smiling. Lana’s reflected gaze met mine from across the room, a perverted grin on her slutty face. The Devil, a hot, horny devil, danced in her eyes. She held the phallic vegetable upright, eyes longingly darting toward it. She didn’t care if her husband was on the phone; she needed to cum.

“That’s perfectly fine, honey. We have a good, solid partnership.” That’s what it was, a partnership, not a heated romance. “I understand, perfectly.”

“I love you,” he said, relief showing in his voice.

I lay back once more, my fingers stroking the surrogate dildo. The mirrored view of my exposed breasts sticking up, nipples erect, blond tendrils splayed over them, caused my body to shiver, little goosebumps of pleasure erupting on my flesh.

“Thank you,” he stated, his typical, everyday tone reemerging. “Tell me all about your day, for a change. Spare no details.”

“Are you sure?” I sighed as gentle waves of passion washed over me. “My days are so dull; nothing juicy ever happens.” My thighs clenched together in need, releasing heat and steam as they parted.

“I insist. Tell me every little detail, leave nothing out.”

Fucking hot, Lana’s voice echoed in my head, Tell him everything; make him cum. You need to cum, too.

I desperately needed an orgasm. I decided to make myself cum while we talked, one more thing he didn’t need to know about.

“Well,” I began. “My day was pretty typical, at first. I got up, showered, ate breakfast, and looked over the bills for the rental units. I gardened a bit, made sure the pool guy would be here this weekend, and then went shopping.”

“M-hmm,” he replied, already growing bored. “What did you buy?”

With my fingers traveling up, grabbing a handful of blond hair, I sighed into the phone, a sigh of pleasure; feelings of horny sexuality consumed me. I knew it was wrong, but I loved who I was in the wig. I was hungry for more. My cunt was already dripping, my dirty mind picturing the day’s events.

“I was looking for a new centerpiece to put on the mantle in the demo townhouse, but I didn’t find anything.”

My husband, bless his heart, was making some feeble effort to be interested. His, “Mm-hmm,” betrayed that his mind was on other things, not truly invested in me or my day, despite what he had just stated.

I curled a few strands of hair around my finger, sucking on it, then shivered as I moved the wet, cold lock of hair over my hard, hot nipple. Leaving the wet hair on top of my tit, my hand glided atop the satin of my robe, fingertips caressing my nude flesh. My fingers groped at the wet, hot flesh of my thigh, feeling the dried cum, rubbing it into my skin.

“I did find a few items that I didn’t need. I bought them.”

“That’s nice, dear,” he said with neither inflection nor interest. He seemed distant as if he were focused on something else.

My mind shot back to the dressing room. It turned me on so much to see myself in the blond wig, wearing that slutty dress. I purred at the thought of how amazing it felt to masturbate in public, that slutty whore looking at me from within the mirror.

“I bought them because when I saw how I looked, it made me feel so damn good.”

“So long as you like them,” he said out of obligation. He didn’t even notice that I had cursed. I think he was oblivious to the fact that his wife was playing with herself while she told him a redacted version of how terrible she had acted.

My hand traveled to my pussy. As I told him the truth about my day, just omitting incriminating details, my fingers, Lana’s fingers, squeezed my clit and tugged it to heightened sensitivity, pulling it, circling it. My hot nectar began flowing, hips bucking up and down in passion.

My husband sighed on the other end. “Then what?”

“I went to the grocery store,” I moaned softly. “I wanted to find something there that would really sate my appetite, something I was truly craving.” Two fingers pushed their way inside my cunt. I wondered if he could hear the sloshing sounds as I fucked myself.

“I swear, I got so worked up that I wound up flat on my back in the store. At least I found something that would completely fill me up.” I could still feel the stranger’s cum on my leg, and my pussy tingled in reverie of the hard, rough fucking he had given me.”

“So you got stuffed full, that’s good.”

“Oh, mmm, Yes,” I stifled a passionate scream as I stuffed the cucumber into my aching hole. It was thick and hard, stretching my insides, sending shudders through my entire body. “I got enough to stuff myself like never before…to really…finally feel full…to the point of exploding.” My speech came out in staccato bursts, my masturbatory efforts hindering my ability to speak.

I paused to let him speak, fucking myself slowly, deeply. Edging close to a soul-rending vaginal orgasm, it must have been two minutes of unending pleasure before I realized that he wasn’t speaking.

I continued, barely coherent. “I was just getting ready to take a bath to wash the dirty cum off me, then eat, when you called…”

Oh, fuck! I can’t believe I said that, my mind screamed. The perverse naughtiness of telling my husband that I was covered in cum pushed me onto the precipice of orgasm.

Fuck, yeah! Lana’s dirty voice screamed in my head. That’ll teach him to ignore your cunt; he deserves it. Fuck us harder!

“I know all about washing off that dirt and scum,” he said. “I feel icky from today, as well.” He was so inattentive that he misheard what I had said.

“So right now, I’m lying here in bed, wearing only that little, red satin robe.” My voice dripped with lust; my body heaved at the thought of it. I was masturbating with a cucumber while on the phone with my husband. A few more thrusts and I knew I’d explode with an intense orgasm.

“Have you eaten, yet?”

“Not exactly,” I mewed. My last syllable sounded shrill as I thrust the cucumber in so deep that it hit my cervix. My breath was coming in heaves. “Right now, I’m just cramming in some vegetables.”

“Oh, okay,” he stammered. “I’ll leave you be. Good talk, hon. Love you. Bye.”

“Love you…” I didn’t even get to say, “too,” before he had hung up.

I didn’t care. Louise was no longer there; Lana’s lust had emerged once more. Leaving the phone on, I fucked myself with wild aggression. I forced the cucumber in as deep as it would go, moving it in and out as fast as I could manage. It grew hot and slick, my sexual lubrication drenching it.

“Fuck me!” I screamed as I plunged it into me hard, deep, and fast. The thick, rounded end smashed into my inner erogenous zones, sending earth-shattering delight coursing through my entire body.

“Make me fucking cum,” I roared, my fingers alternating between stimulating my nipples and pulling on my swollen clit. Each twist and pinch sent jolts of searing pleasure into my soul.

“I’m fucking cumming!” My cries of rapture repeated themselves over and over, primal, guttural sounds pontificating my pleasure. Each orgasmic spasm pushed Louise lower and deeper into the bowels of my subconscious, raising Lana further and higher into dominance. By the time the quaking ripples began to subside, I was Lana, Louise a distant memory.

The sounds of my arousal reverberated through the room; the reflected version of me as a blond, fucking myself into oblivion, filled my eyes. Overcome with ecstatic lust, I threw myself onto my hands and knees and crawled over to the mirror. Lana stared back at me, inviting me. My tongue lashed out, touching the cold, hard glass, and licked my blond, mirrored face all over before ending in a passionate kiss.

When my senses returned, I watched myself lick my cum from the cucumber before a naughty impulse washed over me. This time, I felt no resistance, only complete surrender to my wanton desires. Still on all fours, I turned around, displaying my ass to the mirror. The new and dried cum completely covered my inner thighs. My ass looked inviting sticking up, the red robe covering my back, my blond hair cascading about it, wildly.

With a violent thrust, I buried the vegetable into my snatch once more. I watched me fuck myself, thrusting it in deeply, my moans in time with every shove; my breath was ragged and joyous. I was lost in rapture, consumed by lust, and thoroughly addicted to the feeling.

Another orgasm later, I tore off the wig, and guilt once more waylaid me. In a fit of despair, I threw the long, blond wig to the floor, on top of the slutty dress, vowing to never again give in to the temptation. I stripped off the robe and climbed into bed, nude.

Sleep did not come easily; my mind was cluttered with bouts of shameful remorse followed by horny intensity consuming my body. My final thought, before my body surrendered to the night, was that in the morning I’d get rid of the wig and no longer be haunted by Lana.

The following morning, I awoke with typical stretches and yawns, almost convinced that the previous day’s sordid escapades were a dream. When I saw the slutty dress and wig on the floor, I knew better. Remaining true to my vow, I scooped up the personality-altering wig and threw it into my car along with the rest of my supplies for the day. I’d dispose of the wig in the dumpster on my rental property and be done with Lana, forever.

My day was a long blur of mundanity. A new, potential tenant was due the following day for an interview, so I spent most of my day cleaning and re-redecorating the spare townhouse. The wig lay on the dinette table along with a pile of papers, my to-do list, and cleaning supplies. I worked constantly, trying to forget about the horny sensations of the sex I’d had. The thrill of public sex and masturbation dominated my emotions, always followed by my mind buttressing my decision to never do anything like that, again.

Around sundown, I was finally finished. The townhouse was updated and pristine, all at the expense of tired muscles and an aching back. As I scooped up my cleaning supplies, placing them back into my carry-along bucket, my hand clumsily knocked part of the morning paper and the wig onto the floor. I had been using the paper to wrap some items for storage as I placed new decorations in their stead.

Kneeling because I ached too much to bend over, I grabbed the wig with one hand, noting a restaurant review, starkly presented in black and white, on the visible page of the newspaper. The headline read, “Voted Most Romantic Restaurant.” That was perfect; I was hungry. First, though, a hot, steamy bath to soothe my aching muscles. I ran the bath, soaked and relaxed while Lana emerged, unbidden, and took over planning my wardrobe, then called to make reservations for one. Despite disavowing any return of Lana, her sexually-deviant, creative personality was welcomed with mentally-open arms.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said to the bubbly woman hostess who answered the phone. “Just one, I’ll be dining alone tonight.”

“I see,” she said without a tinge of judgment. “Main room, at the bar, or would you like a street-side outdoor table?”

“Whichever is more convenient,” I said, eyeing up the skimpy dress my alter-ego had chosen, wondering if I dared wear it.

“I suggest the street-side patio. It’s so lovely this time of year. You have a great view of the gallery district, right across from the park. Name please?”

“Lou…” I paused, staring at the wig. “Lana. Lana Stevenson.”

“Okay, sweetie. Lana Stevenson, patio table for one. I’ll be ready to take you in about thirty minutes.

Calling my outfit a “little black dress” would be like a stripper’s costume a formal dress. Another of my attempts at spicing up our love life, this dress was a mid-sleeve, cold shoulder affair that clung to my body. Made of stretchy cotton spandex, slightly shimmery, it hugged my flesh, revealing every contour. The skirt portion was so short that I had to take baby steps to avoid flashing my ass and pussy to everyone. Even the act of demurely sitting would reveal my panties or lack thereof. The back was open to almost the small of my back, negating the possibility of wearing a bra. The only shoes of mine in the townhouse, other than the ragged tennis shoes I wore that day, were a pair of patent leather spiked heels. They’d have to do.

The bedroom mirror slut-shamed me for dressing like a trashy bimbo until Lana’s wig was firmly in place. Then my transformation was complete. Feeling natural, a part of myself, my mind and body relaxed into sensual comfort as soon as the blond waves covered my natural hair. Serenity, sexuality, horniness, and more filled my essence. Outwardly, I went from looking like an uncomfortable slut to looking like a sexual goddess, powerful in her lusty aura, at peace with her passionate exterior. I smiled at myself as Roberta Louise Stevenson dissipated into the ether. Lana Stevenson, sexual dynamo, was once more in the driver’s seat.

It took me twenty minutes to build up enough nerve to put on the dress and heels. No undergarments came between the tight fabric and bare skin. Although a twenty-minute drive, it took less than ten minutes for Lana to speed to the restaurant, charm the hostess, and be seated. Lana liked things to move fast.

The patio was comfortable and shaded with a nice, cool breeze blowing the scent of summer blossoms through the air. Across the hardly-driven, cobblestone street was a quaint little park. Couples and individuals walked to and fro, a street artist’s booth almost directly across from me. He sat in the middle of three tables shoved together in a U-shaped pattern, his wares, mostly sketches of people, displayed on the tables and hanging over the sides. The table in front of him was covered with the tools of his trade. Various pencils and paper cluttered it while he sketched the likenesses of anyone willing to pay.

The restaurant was nestled in an artsy, touristy section, which meant that vehicle traffic was sparse. A few galleries dotted the adjacent buildings, and lots of avant-garde, fringe types meandered back and forth. Although a bit pretentious, it was a nice area, a pocket of progressive culture surrounded by faux nature. It was, indeed, a romantic setting.

“Would the lovely lady enjoy a nice cold drink in this heat?” The voice was young, maybe in his twenties, but smooth and confident.

A handsome young waiter was smiling down at me, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was staring directly at my breasts. He was muscular, hair coiffed perfectly, ruggedly handsome and tan, and smiling at the view of my breasts. Possessed by Lana, knowing that the dress merely painted color over the full, round, orbs of my tits, I pushed them outward and upward towards him.

“If you stare at my boobs any longer, I’ll have to take you home,” I teased. I ignored his embarrassment. “Yes, a drink sounds nice.”

“What would the lady enjoy?”

“I'd enjoy just about anything you care to offer. You’ll find out later. But, for a drink, surprise me. Bring me something like you…strong, virile, and sexy.”

“May I suggest…”

“I said, ‘surprise me.’”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirked.

“Call me Lana.”

Minutes later, my musclebound, male servant brought me a greenish, semi-sweet cocktail and a menu. I was watching the artist across the street. We’d locked eyes once or twice before I spread my legs a bit, giving him a glimpse of the paradise between my thighs. Some passersby noticed the nudity beneath my short, skimpy, black dress and stared. Most did not. The few other diners on the patio took grand notice of my tightly-wrapped breasts, my nipples sticking out proudly.

“What drink is this?” I asked.

“It’s called a Climax,” he beamed. “Triple sec, creme de bananes, creme, amaretto, and vodka.”

I took a sip. “I like it. Bring me a few more. Give me multiple Climaxes, and more, tonight.”

He began to smile, but his jaw dropped when he saw my spread legs. My smooth pussy hypnotized him, took his breath away.

“Up here,” I wagged a finger in front of my crotch and wiped a little of my sex juice from my bare lips. “No appetizers for me, I think I’m definitely ready for action. Bring me a big, hot, juicy hunk of meat to put in my mouth.”

“How would you like it?”

“I like it hot, steaming, succulent, and filled with juice. I want to hear it scream when I wrap my lips around your meat. I want to feel it explode in my mouth”

He scampered off, his pants showing a nice erection. My unsubtle innuendo wasn’t lost on him. My meal came; my waiter, Tony, kept me amply supplied with drinks. If they’d have been real climaxes, I’d have been sated. The food was excellent, the atmosphere nice, and I passed the time flashing random pedestrians and the artist across the way.

“Tony,” I said to him when I finished. “I’m going to go across the street and pose for a drawing. Are you married?” Not the smoothest segue into another topic, but it would do.

“I have a girlfriend,” he blushed.

“Lucky girl. I’m horny, why don’t you bring her along to my place, later? We can have some fun.”

“She’s away.” He blushed the loveliest shade of crimson.

“Just you then.” I paused, lustily staring, until he nodded. “I don’t want a relationship, just your cock.”

“Umm, ah, err,” he stuttered.

“186 Fleet Street,” I told him, writing the townhouse address on my check. “In the Soho district.” I plopped a few hundred-dollar bills on the table and got up, making sure he had a great view of my shaven cunt. All the flashing and teasing had me extremely aroused, the wetness shimmering on my cunt-lips evidence of the fact. “Nothing else for me. You’ll be my dessert, later.”

He, as well as several patrons, watched me walk across the street to the artist. His eyes had been on me throughout my entire meal. He was cute, almost sexy in a disenfranchised sort of way. I caught his eye, and we stared at each other as I approached, both sets of eyes appraising the other. Lana’s hypersexuality caused me to jut out my breasts, sway my hips, and lick my lips.

I sat in the chair across from his U-shaped impromptu drawing table, both of us smiling. “Draw me. Make me sexy,” I drawled. I propped one leg on the table. The action caused the already-short hem to ride up, exposing my dripping pussy. I allowed my other leg to lazily drape to the side, giving him an unobstructed view.

“How much?”

“I noticed you,” he said with confidence. “I’ll draw you for free.”

“If I like it, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Stick your chest out a bit more,” he directed. I happily did so, feeling my hard nipples strain against the dress. “You’re so sexy, like Venus.”

He stared at me, his piercing, blue eyes and trimmed goatee giving him a devilish appearance. His gaze traveled over my lust-riddled face, across my pert, large breasts, fixating on my hard nipples, then down my taut stomach, finally staring hot rays at my exposed pussy. Pencil met paper in confident, elaborate swirls, the sound of his sketching erotic foreplay as he drooled over me, inspired by my sexual heat and heaving, lusty body, compelled to create.

“I love your breasts,” he murmured, choosing another pencil. “So full and round, nipples so prominent.”

I rubbed and caressed my boobs in response, pinching my nipples to greater excitement. “Make sure you get them perfect. I want people to see your art and cream their pants.”

He scrawled more, verbally celebrating my physical charms, onlookers stopping to admire both myself and his art before moving on. Several got an eyeful of my nude cunt.

“Your thighs,” he said, half moaning. “So soft, so smooth, you are art.”

I spread my legs more, staring at him hungrily, my tongue wetting my lips.

“Your pussy,” he paused, meeting my eyes, continuing when I smiled more broadly rather than being offended. “So swollen, so moist. It moves me.”

“Moist?” I teased, one hand moving down to caress my velvety folds. “How about wet? Would you like to draw me with my soaking, wet cunt on display?”

Most of the few people around failed to notice. Those few that did pay attention to their surroundings were treated to the view of a sexy blond wearing a short, tight dress, her pussy openly displayed, masturbating for her artist. My fingers traced the outlines of my labia, spreading my lips apart, so he could see the obvious wetness, my arousal pooling, dripping out.

“I’m inspired,” he shouted.

Feeling devilishly naughty by my public display, I threw my head back, unrestrained moans of passion bursting from my lips. My clit was swollen to the point of desperate need, throbbing with my increasing pulse; my breath came in impassioned heaves.

As he hurriedly sketched me, his cock bulging through his tattered jeans, I fingered my aching cunt, assaulted my clit, and came hard and fast in soul-shaking spasms, nearly tipping over my chair.

Wave after quaking wave moved through my body. “Fucking cumming,” I sighed.

A short eternity later, my seizure-like spasms subsided. My artist friend was sweating, his face red, his visage hungry with lust.

“Finito,” he declared, beginning to hold the picture out for me to see.

I stopped him. “Don’t, “I commanded, panting. “Let me.”

I stood, not bothering to pull the hem of my dress down to cover my exposed ass, and walked around his drawing station. Glancing around quickly, seeing nobody paying heed, I unzipped his jeans and fished out his already-hard cock. It was nice, slightly longer than average, a little thick. His body smelled vaguely of patchouli. Without a word, I straddled his lap, hovered my dripping cunt over his erection, and impaled myself on his cock with one, fluid motion.

Seated as we were, with his drawing table partially obstructing the view, it seemed as if I were merely sitting on his lap. Anything more than a casual glance would quickly reveal the pumping of my hips and the quivering of my stomach as his hardness throbbed deep inside me. His graphite-covered hand promptly found my clit and flicked it as I rode him.

I held the sketch up before me. “I look like a sexy whore,” I said, rocking my hips back and forth as he moaned in time with my syllables.

“Do my nipples really stand out so much?” I put his other hand over my tit, forcing his fingers to squeeze my hard nipple.

“Aaah, ummm, aah, yes,” he moaned into my ear.

A passerby gave us a double-take, blushed, and moved on, averting his eyes while I giggled.

“You must love my cunt,” I moaned, feeling another orgasm begin to build. “I’ve never seen so much realistic detail.”

“Mm-hmm,” he sighed.

“You captured my cum-juice pouring out of it quite well.”

I began bucking up and down on his lap. Every bounce shoved his cock into me as far as it could go. It wasn’t as large as the cucumber, but it hit several erotic places deep within me.

“I love it,” he whispered into my ear.

“Love what?” I begged, “tell me.”

“Your, ah, so good, pussy.” I could feel his member beginning to swell inside me.

“Call it a cunt. Tell me that you love my hot, dripping, cunt. Tell me you loved me fucking myself for you while you drew me.”

Yes, Lana screamed in my head. We’re such a fucking horny slut. Fuck him, make us cum.

“Yes, I’m a fucking slut,” I answered Lana, not him. “I fucking love getting fucked in public, everyone seeing me, watching me get off.”

That must have been too much for him. He couldn’t manage another word. In response, I felt his hot, sticky cum shooting into me, searing my insides. That set off my own mini-orgasm, lovely little quakes vibrating through me. What he lacked in endurance, he made up for in volume. Spurt after spurt erupted inside my cunt. It saturated my canal, dripped out of me, and oozed down my thighs.

As soon as he finished moaning into my ear, I climbed off, gave his shrinking cock a gentle kiss, grabbed my very well-done and extremely sexy sketch, and walked back to the restaurant. Tony, the waiter, was staring at me, a look of disbelief on his face.

“I hope you last longer than he did,” I smirked as I passed him, patting his erection. “My place, 9:00 PM. Don’t be late.”

Basking in the spotlight of everyone’s stares, cum running down my legs, I slowly walked, smiling, through the restaurant to my car and drove toward the townhouse. Lana reminded me that I had nothing to wear to entice and seduce the young, handsome waiter. Mentally shrugging, we decided that if I had nothing to wear then we’d wear nothing at all. He was due in just over an hour. I hoped he wouldn’t disappoint.

I checked my phone when I got back. Oddly, my husband hadn’t called at his usual time. “Fuck him,” I said to the empty room.

No, Lana responded from within. Fuck that sexy waiter.