I become Kurt's sex kitten.

For your second date with Kurt, you are dressed to the nines in full bimbo trophy wife attire.

You have on a bright pink, skin-tight cocktail mini-dress which extends just a few inches below your crotch. The bodice is tight with a plunging neckline that plumps out your (new!) boobs into two luscious mounds of naked flesh. You've gotten your lips plumped with collagen, and you're wearing bimbo makeup, pink with wet, 'fuck my mouth' lips. You blonde hair is teased and fabulous.

You are hot to trot.

"I hope Kurt loves it," you say, stepping out into the hotel lobby on your pink, 5" stiletto heels.

"How could he not?" asks April. "You look fabulous."

Your heels 'click-click' across the marble floors as you find Kurt in the bar, finishing up a drink.

"Now THAT's what I'm talkin' about," he says. "Spin for me, let me have a 360-degree view."

A little embarrassed, you do as your asked, showing your body from all sides, including your nice plump ass.

"Perfect," he says. "Let's go. I want to show you off."

"You two have fun!" April calls after you.

As you walk to the elevators, Kurt turns right and pushes you into a side door.

"We're taking the stairs?" you ask, confused.

"No, dumb bunny," he says, pushing you against the cinderblock wall on the stair landing. "I need some of your sweet lips first."

He first pulls you into a deep kiss, his tongue aggressively probing around in your mouth, his hands all over your body, then he pushes you down to your knees and unzips his pants.

"Take care of me, my cock-sucking slut," he says, smirking.

His rough treatment has ignited your kink, and so you carefully fish his hard cock out of his pants, your bright-pink long fingernails contrasting sexily with his hard cock and brown pubic hair. Wrapping your big puffy lips around his member, you suck him down like a blow job whore.

"Oh, god," he says, gasping. "You are GOOD. Oh FUCK."

You run your soft lips and tongue up and down his shaft. Meanwhile, you play with his balls and grasp his ass with your hands. Soon, he grasps your head and pistons his cock into your face, pushing it down your throat, your nose pressed into his crotch. Soon his rod tenses up and he's shooting into your mouth, filling it with his seed.

"Show me," he says.

Obediently, you open your mouth to show him it's full of cum.

"Perfect," he says. "Now swallow."

You obediently do as he says, the slimy mixture sliding down your throat.

The party is in the penthouse restaurant, and it's full of Goldman Sachs employees. The toxic masculinity and testosterone is so thick it makes you woozy and horny.

Throughout the evening, you hang on Kurt's arm, smiling and laughing at everything he says, staring at him adoringly. You've made sure to wear lots of expensive, newly bought, jewelry so that you can be a glittery ornament for your man.

Kurt, meanwhile, puts his arm around you possessively, sometimes dropping it down to squeeze your bottom, which makes you squeal and giggle.

You look to all the men like some sort of sex bimbo - and what's worse is they all want one of their own. The other wives and girlfriends in the room are all much more sophisticated, with their pencil skirts, elegant blouses and long straight brunette hair. They look at you with disgust, like you're some tacky white trash slut Kurt plucked from a dumpster in a Van Nuys trailer-park. They assume all your jewels are paste.

But you don't care. After all, you're richer than half of them put together, and when you put on the pink bimbo trophy wife outfit, something deep inside you wants this. You want to be Kurt's sex kitten. You want to be the adoring trophy wife who only has eyes for her man.

You break away to go to the little girls room (a bimbo like you would never call it the powder room or the ladies room, would you?). On the way back, you are accosted by a group of Goldman Sachs men who push in around you.

"Hey Baby, I've got three times the net worth of Kurt over there. Why don't you come home with me?" one says.

"My cock is easily twice his, I saw it in the gym," says another.

"I'm a managing director," says another. "He's only a Vice President."

"I thought vice president was good," you say.

They all laugh at what a dumb bimbo you are.

They crowd in closer and you start to freak out as their hands are on your bottom and one grabs your tits. You squirm out of there, elbowing one in the face, and race with small steps on your wobbly high heels over to Kurt who protectively puts his arm around you.

"This is what being a wife is like," you think, as you snuggle into his arms. He grabs your bottom. "Yes, this is exactly what being a trophy wife is like."

Kurt is on cloud nine as you leave the party. He's sure he's on the fast track to Managing Director now! You quickly stop in the bathroom on the way out to dilate and lubricate, and you're glad you did because in the limousine he pushes you onto your back, pushes up your skirt, pulls your thong to the side, roughly spreads your legs apart and enters your (brand new!) pussy.

Oh god! You are being fucked! You spread your legs further for him and now he's fully on top of you, pressing you into the leather limo seats, thrusting away, his lips on your mouth, kissing you with his tongue down your throat.

You feel taken. Taken and used and conquered. Kurt is a bit drunk, clearly on a high from the great party, and as horny as shit.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK!" he repeats over and over again, ploughing you deep until he orgasms, screaming, completely unconcerned for Marty, your limo driver (the divider is up, of course).

Of course, you haven't cum yet, but that's OK. You husband got his rocks off, and that's what's really most important for a bimbo wife, isn't it? That her husband is satisfied?

"Let's get married," he says, pulling his cock out, a river of sperm leaking from your pussy and soiling your new dress.

"What?" you ask, not quite understanding. But then, once you realize what's just happened, you squeal:

"YES! OH, YES, KURT!"

That wasn't so hard, you think. And I still have {marriage_weeks} left!!

Kurt knocks on the divider.

"Take us to Las Vegas!" he shouts.

The divider lowers and Marty looks back at you with sad eyes.

"Yes, please," you say, not caring, tipsy and horny. "Take us to LAS VEGAS!!"