Bad boy

I grin and start riding your cock harder, squeezing it with each thrust. Moaning loudly as I ride you, "Oh I see. You want to see your pretty little wife behaving like a dirty little slut?" You nod your head, smiling dumbly. I stop bouncing on your dick, holding you in place firmly, "Just how slutty? How nasty do you want me to be, Clyde?" You pant and blurt out, "Very!" I giggle, then dismount myself from your cock. "Well ok, but I want to make things special, so no more sex or cumming until our anniversary, ok?" You nod in agreement, and I get up to to go into the bathroom, then stop and turn my head, "Oh, and just to make it even more fun, I'm going to let you dress me up for this little adventure. I'll wear anything you want, and I do mean anything, so don't be afraid to just go nuts with it, this is your present after all. But keep in mind that the sluttier you dress me, the sluttier I'm going to behave. Something for you to think about!" And with that I go to get cleaned up.

For the next week, we go about our usual lives, though we're both clearly getting more and more excited about our upcoming anniversary, and I can't help but wonder just how slutty you're going to dress me. Part of me is afraid, but a louder, more fun part of me gets turned on at the thought of you dressing me like the whore you've secretly wanted me to be. But I have to wait until our anniversary to find out just what you have in mind for me. In the meantime, I decide to aid the anticipation factor, and each night I do a sexy striptease for you, followed by me fucking myself with a large dildo and talking extra dirty to you, telling you how good that big cock feels inside of me, and how much I love being a slut. I do this until just before I cum, so as not to break the rule, leaving us both even more horny and frustrated, less able to think clearly.

Finally though, the big day arrives, and you have the outfit for me, enclosed in a package, which I take into the bathroom to get ready, making you wait outside. I apply my makeup, extra heavy, smokey eye shadow, cat's eye eyeliner, mascara, a dark, almost black shade of red for my lips, heavy on the gloss, giving them that wet, fuckable look. I put on large hoop earrings, and other jewelry. I'd gone to the esthetician for a fresh waxing, so my pussy is extra bald and smooth, along with my legs. Once everything else is done, I open the package, and my eyes widen. Pulling out the items, I realize I have swimsuits that cover more skin than what you want me to wear. To be fair, I also have quite a few that cover significantly less, but still. There's only a top, skirt and a pair of boots, no underwear included, so I assume you want me to go without. I did say I'd wear whatever you want, so I go ahead and get dressed. First I pull on the skirt, a tight, black item that can't be more than six inches in length, and has a slit that ends at the waistband. I adjust the skirt so the slit goes up the front of my left thigh. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see just how much of the bottom of my ass it leaves bare, and try pulling it down an inch or so, which makes the waistband move down an equal amount, only serving to make me look even sluttier. Next I put the top on, A tiny, stretchy, white thing, sleeveless, and ties off in the front. Looking in the mirror, I also see just how sheer it is, my areolas and nipples clearly visible through the thin material. I also notice just how small it is, given that the material leaves a rather generous amount of underboob bare. Finally I put on the boots, They're tall, and black and shiny, with six inch stiletto heels and one inch platforms, the sides and back of the boot goes up to just below my knees, but the front goes up to my knees, and is padded. The implications there are obvious enough. I look myself over in the mirror, and can't help but smile. You clearly want me to be really, really slutty tonight. And with that, I turn and leave the bathroom, out into the bedroom where you're waiting.

Your jaw drops as you see me, your sweet, sexy little wife, dressed every bit like the slut you want me to be. I can see by the look on your face and the tent in your pants you approve. I contemplate setting up a safeword, just in case things go too far for you. But then catch my reflection in our bedroom mirror, and see how turned on you are by how I look and change my mind. I don't think I've ever seen you look at me with so much lust and need, and any thoughts of caution are cast aside. This is clearly something you've been wanting, and who am I to dampen the mood? So with that, we set off to some bar that you've picked out.

Upon entering the establishment, quite a lot of eyes fall upon me, taking in my appearance. While there are other women in the crowded bar, none are dressed anywhere near as slutty as I am. The clientele seems a bit on the rough side, but nothing particularly scary. Or maybe that's just my pussy talking, the way so many of these men are staring at me, like lions eyeing up a wounded gazelle, has my pussy on fire. You walk in right behind me, seemingly mesmerized by my ass. So I head to the bar, and have you order us a couple of bottles of beer. Looking around the bar, I see the dance floor, where there's a couple of people dancing to some blues rock song. In the back there's some pool tables, and I decide on a game of pool to help attract some more attention. "Come on, Clyde, it'll be fun! We haven't played pool in such a long time." You agree, and with that, we head to the back and find an open pool table. Before we begin, an idea pops into my head, and I lean in and whisper it to you, "Ok, so I know you're a better pool player than I am, but I want you to lose," for emphasis on where I'm headed with this, I briefly grab and squeeze your hard cock through your pants. You agree and we begin. Whenever it's my turn, I can practically feel the guys in the bar eyefucking me as I bend over, flashing whoever's behind me my pussy and ass, my tits threatening to spill out of this tiny top. The feeling of all those eyes on me in that position makes my knees weak. But you oblige, and play badly enough to lose, though prolonging the game quite a bit, seeming to enjoy the sight of me bending over for all these men. Finally though, the game ends with me victorious, and I grin, looking around the bar and saying loudly, "Any real man here who knows how to handle his stick care to step up?"

Quite a few men eagerly approach, and I stand, legs slightly apart, biting my lower lip and smiling, looking them over with lustful contemplation. Each of them has their own appeal, and in the end I turn to you and say, "Honey, which of these guys do you think can handle his stick the best?"