FabSwingers.com forum: Midlife Transformation: Dylan to Diana Part 2

By (user no longer on site) OP
16 weeks ago

Chapter 4: Her Drive Home

Diana drove back to Westhoughton, the A roads stretching dark and desolate before her, her mind a churning cesspit as the Fiesta’s engine growled a steady hum. The night replayed in lurid, sticky flashes—John’s lips smashing hers, his rough hands hiking her skirt, his thick cock tearing into her arsehole, stretching her raw in that cramped backseat until she was a gasping, dripping mess. She shifted in the driver’s seat, wincing at the sharp sting, when a hot, slimy trickle between her thighs snapped her back, a filthy shock slicing through the haze. Her fingers brushed it—cum, John’s cum, oozing thick and rancid from her wrecked arsehole, soaking her lace knickers, a steaming puddle of his spunk she could feel sloshing inside her guts. He hadn’t used a condom—he’d fucked her bare, pumped her full like a cheap slag—and the realization hit her like a lorry on the M61, dragging a flood of jagged, mucky thoughts to the surface.

Panic clawed at her first, a cold, sharp spike sinking into her chest, her breath hitching as the road blurred. She’d trusted him, assumed that rustle was a rubber, but he’d rammed his prick in raw, leaving her arsehole a gaping, cum-stuffed hole, his seed festering in her sissy shitter—a violation she couldn’t scrub out. The mechanic in him—Dylan, who could strip an engine blind—screamed to fix this, to claw back control, but this was beyond his spanners, a stinking mess she couldn’t unfeel, her guts churning with the weight of his load. Risks spun wild in her head—cock-rot, filth she hadn’t signed up for, her body a sodden rag he’d wrung out and left dripping, a vulnerability that burned hotter than the ache in her arsehole where his prick had split her wide.

Yet beneath the panic, a darker, wetter thread slithered through, graphic and vile—a sissy’s thrill pulsing thick as the cum leaking from her. John’s cock had been a beast—fat, veiny, slamming her arsehole till it gaped like a busted pipe, his spunk blasting deep, painting her insides with ropes of hot muck, marking her as his filthy fuck-hole. She pictured it—his balls slapping her arse, unloading a torrent of jizz that flooded her sissy guts, a steaming swamp she could still feel slopping around, her knickers a sodden rag clinging to her thighs. It was wrong, rancid, a twisted rush she hadn’t begged for but couldn’t deny, her mind replaying the squelch of his prick pulling out, the dribble of spunk down her crack, a heat that made her squirm, her sissy core dripping with dark glee she loathed but craved.

Guilt roared in, a familiar knife twisting in his gut, Susan’s face looming—steady, hazel-eyed Susan, the wife he’d sworn to, now a shadow over this cum-soaked betrayal. Here she was, Diana, driving home with John’s thick load festering in her arsehole, a sissy tart who’d let a stranger shag her rotten, her gob still tasting the salt of his cock, her skirt reeking of his spunk. She loved Susan—her quiet strength, the way her hands moved over a crossword, the rare spark when their eyes locked—and this was a hammer to it, a secret dripping from her sissy hole, a fracture in the trust he’d stretched thin. But it wasn’t just Susan he’d betrayed; it was himself, Dylan, the man who’d buried this filth under Horwich’s rough code, a mechanic whose life of fixing engines couldn’t fix the mucky sissy she’d become, her journey veering into a swamp of cum and shame.

Her thoughts turned graphic, unspooling in vivid, dripping detail—she could still feel John’s cock splitting her arsehole, the brutal stretch as he’d rammed in, her sissy ring burning as it gave way, his balls slapping wet against her arse, unloading a flood of spunk that felt like molten filth pouring into her guts. She imagined it leaking out now, a slow, thick ooze staining the car seat, her knickers a sopping mess of cum and arse-juice, a sissy’s badge of ruin she’d wear home. The panic ebbed, morphing into a twisted pride—John’s prick had bred her raw, his cum a steaming brand in her sissy shitter, a mark of how far she’d plunged, her arsehole a gaping testament to the slag she’d let loose, a rush that made her thighs clench, her mind a sewer of delight she couldn’t rinse clean.

For Dylan, the mechanic who’d lived in silence, this was a crack in his armor—he’d built his life on denial, a Horwich lad who’d learned softness was a sin, his hands rough from years of spanners, his heart caged by expectation. For Diana, it was a sissy’s triumph, a woman reveling in the muck—John’s cock had fucked her senseless, his spunk a flood she’d taken deep, her arsehole a wrecked, dripping prize she owned, a graphic truth she couldn’t unfeel. The guilt softened, the thrill settled into a gritty peace—she wouldn’t let this break her, but she wouldn’t scrub it out either. It was hers, a sissy’s filthy trophy, cum-soaked and real, a milestone from his buried ache to her roaring filth.

She pulled into Westhoughton, the semi-detached looming silent, Susan’s snores a steady hum through the walls as she crept in, John’s cum still seeping, a hot, slimy trail she’d wash away in the shower, her arsehole throbbing with every step, a sissy’s secret pulsing in her guts. Slipping into bed, her red nails caught the moonlight, a bold slash against the night’s chaos, her mind settling—Dylan had been the man who’d chok ed this down, who’d fixed others’ wrecks while his own soul rusted, a Horwich ghost who’d lived for the garage. Diana was the woman who’d burst free, her arsehole a cum-drenched proof of her plunge, Susan’s love a tether he’d stretched but clung to, the drive home a bridge between his silence and her graphic, dripping truth, her journey unfolding in every sticky mile, a sissy forged in John’s raw shagging, her thoughts a vivid reel of filth she’d carry into sleep.

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By (user no longer on site) OP
16 weeks ago

Chapter 5: Her Visit to the Sauna

John had lit a fuse in Diana, a restless, dirty hunger that gnawed at her after that second night out, a craving she couldn’t shake loose from the shadows of their Westhoughton semi-detached. He’d felt it since—Dylan, the mechanic, wrestling with a secret that had festered through decades of grease and silence, a man whose Horwich youth had beaten softness out of him like a dent from a panel. She’d tasted freedom with John, her arsehole still tingling from his raw shagging, and now she needed more, a deeper plunge to feed the sissy clawing out of his shell. She’d heard whispers of a gay sauna in Bolton, a dim dive off Deansgate, a pit where anonymity met raw lust in steamy haze. One muggy evening, months after John, he decided she’d go, her nerves a jittery mess, the itch too fierce to ignore.

Preparation was a shaky ritual—he swapped her black skirt for a tighter one, paired it with a blouse she could shed quick, her wig pinned with trembling hands, mascara smudged as her nerves frayed, her red nails a bold slash against her quaking fingers. Susan was off at her sister’s in Bury, leaving the house empty, and she slipped out, heart thudding like a seized engine, palms sweaty on the Fiesta’s wheel as she drove into the night, her stomach a knot of dread. What the fuck was she doing? A sauna full of blokes, cocks out, eyeing her up—she wasn’t ready, not for this, her mind screaming retreat, Dylan’s caution roaring loud, a mechanic who fixed things, not a sissy tart about to get shagged senseless. But her arsehole twitched, John’s cum a ghost in her guts, and she pressed on, nerves a live wire sparking fear and filthy want.

The sauna was a swamp of steam and shadow, the air thick with heat and the stink of sweat, a jolt from the garage’s oil-soaked quiet where he’d hid his truth. Men prowled the haze—towels slung low, some bare—their eyes raking her as she stepped in, her skirt swishing, heels clicking unsteady on slick tiles, her breath shallow, panic rising sharp. She felt like a lamb in a wolf den, a sissy out of her depth, her hands clutching her blouse, every muscle tensed to bolt, the hum of muffled grunts and wet slaps spiking her fear—Christ, they’d see right through her, a fraud in lace knickers, not the slag she’d pretended with John. She nearly turned back, her legs trembling, Dylan’s voice in her head—run, you daft sod—but then a door creaked, and she stumbled into a dim room, walls dripping, sealing her fate with two blokes who turned to stare.

They locked eyes—one stocky, sweat-slick, a wall of muscle; the other lean, Asian, his quiet intensity cutting her like a blade—and her throat tightened, a sissy caught, her escape snuffed out. “Fresh meat, eh?” the stocky one grinned, voice low, predatory, and she nodded, frozen, her hands fumbling at her skirt, nerves screaming as they closed in. “Come play,” he said, and she stepped forward, legs shaking, the air crackling, her mind a whirl of terror—two cocks, no turning back, her arsehole clenching in dread. He tugged her skirt up, hands rough, baring her arse—no knickers, a reckless choice that hit her now, her breath hitching as he bent her over a padded bench, arse thrust high, quivering, exposed. “Bend over,” he growled, and she obeyed, knees buckling, fear choking her—Dylan’s world shattering as she braced for it.

Then it hit—the stocky one spat on her arsehole, a wet gob that made her flinch, and rammed his cock in raw, thick and brutal, splitting her with a scream that tore from her throat, the burn blinding as he sank deep, balls smacking her thighs with a wet thud. At the same instant, the lean one dropped his towel, his cock a monster—long, thick, veined, dwarfing John’s—a sight that snapped her eyes wide, dread morphing into a filthy jolt. “Suck it,” he said, soft but firm, guiding her head, and her lips stretched, taking him in, the size choking her, her jaw aching as he thrust shallow, precum flooding her gob. She gagged, spit dripping, but the realization sank in—two blokes, cocks in her arsehole and mouth, no rubbers, no mercy—and the nerves melted, a sissy’s slutty thrill surging hot, her body yielding to the muck she’d feared.

She was a slag now, proper—a sissy fuck-toy split between them, her arsehole pounded raw, stretched wide by a thick prick that slammed her guts, her gob stuffed with a beast of a cock she could barely handle, drool and precum spilling down her chin. The stocky one fucked her savage, no condom, his sweat dripping on her back, grunts filling her ears as he drove deeper, her arse rocking with each brutal thrust, a wet squelch echoing as he bred her deep. The lean one’s monster chok ed her, tears streaming as she sucked, lips stretched to breaking, a sissy reveling in the filth—two strangers shagging her senseless, her arsehole a gaping sewer, her gob a cum-trap, the sluttiness washing away the panic, a dirty glow blooming in her core. She loved it, the wreck of it, her nerves drowned in the rush of being used, a tart unleashed from his silence.

It ended in a mucky storm—the stocky one roared, flooding her arsehole with cum, hot and thick, a scalding blast that oozed out, dripping down her thighs; the lean one groaned, his cock erupting, spunk blasting her throat, too much to swallow, spilling over her face as she chok ed, a sissy drenched inside and out. They faded into the steam, leaving her slumped, cum leaking from her wrecked arsehole, staining her skirt, coating her blouse—a quivering slag, the bench slick with her ruin, steam cloaking her shame and glee. The weight hit harder than John—bred raw again, cum in her gob, no protection, risks doubling, Dylan’s practicality howling in his head—disease, filth, a plunge he couldn’t unmake. But she grinned through it, a sissy tart won over by the slutty truth—her arsehole a cum-soaked prize, her gob a dripping mess, alive in the muck she’d feared, a step beyond John into a deeper, dirtier abyss, her nerves a memory as she owned the wreck she’d become.

For him, Dylan had been a cage—Horwich’s lad, a mechanic who’d buried this, his hands rough from spanners, his soul locked in denial. For her, Diana was a slag set free, her second night out a spark, this sauna a fire—nervous at first, but now reveling in the cum dripping from her arsehole, the taste of cock on her tongue, a sissy forged in filth, Susan’s trust a distant thread he’d stretched thin, her journey marked by raw shagging and surrender, a woman he couldn’t unfeel.

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By (user no longer on site) OP
16 weeks ago

Chapter 6: Susan’s Silent Witness

Susan lay still in their Westhoughton semi-detached, the duvet pulled tight to her chin, her snores a practiced rhythm as the front door creaked open in the dead of night. She’d been dozing, half-expecting Diana’s late return from wherever she’d gone—Bolton, she’d muttered vaguely—but the air shifted as Diana crept in, a thick, musky stench wafting through the bedroom, slicing through Susan’s feigned sleep like a blade. It hit her hard—sweat, spunk, the raw tang of sex, a reeking cloud that clung to Diana, heavy and unmistakable, a whiff of something filthy and feral that jolted Susan’s eyes open in the dark, her breath catching sharp. She kept still, a statue under the covers, but her mind roared awake, reeling as Diana stumbled past, shedding her skirt and blouse, the stink growing stronger—a sissy tart dripping with strangers’ muck, a truth Susan hadn’t braced for.

She’d known about the dresses, the heels, the nights out—Dylan had spilled that much, his gruff confession months ago cracking open a door she’d peered through with wary curiosity. He was her husband, 25 years of grit and tea-stained mugs, a mechanic whose steady hands had built their life, a Horwich lad she’d tamed with her Bolton burr and practical love. But this—this Diana—reeked of a plunge she hadn’t fathomed, a sissy shagged rotten, her body a vessel of cum and sweat, the evidence seeping into the room like a stain Susan couldn’t un-smell. She heard the shower hiss, Diana washing it away, but the scent lingered, a ghost in the air, and Susan’s chest tightened—shock, disgust, a flicker of betrayal twisting her gut. Who’d fucked her? How many? Her Dylan, her man, reduced to this—a slag sneaking home with her arsehole dripping, her gob stinking of cock?

Her thoughts spun wild, graphic and unbidden—she pictured Diana bent over, skirt hiked, some Bolton brute ramming her arsehole raw, spunk flooding her sissy guts, another cock choking her throat, cum splattering her face, her wig matted with it. The image was vile, a punch to her steady world of WI teas and Sunday roasts, a husband she’d known as a rock now a sissy tart shagged to ruin. She wanted to scream, to shake him awake, demand answers—where’d you go, you filthy sod? Who’s bred you like a bitch?—but she stayed silent, her snores a mask, her mind a storm of revulsion and hurt. He’d kept this from her, this depth of muck, and it stung—25 years, two lads, and now this, a secret dripping with strangers’ loads, a fracture in the life they’d built.

Yet beneath the shock, a strange heat stirred, faint but undeniable—a whisper in her gut she couldn’t name, a flicker of something dark as the shower cut off and Diana slipped into bed, the mattress dipping, her damp skin brushing Susan’s arm. She smelled cleaner now, soap masking the worst, but Susan’s nose caught it still—a faint whiff of spunk, a trace of sex clinging to her sissy frame, a scent that lingered like a dare. What did it mean, this pull? She loathed it, this betrayal, but her body hummed, a traitor’s pulse quickening as she pictured it again—Diana’s arsehole stretched, cum oozing, her gob a mess of spit and jizz—a vision that repulsed her yet sparked a curiosity she couldn’t squash. She feigned sleep, eyes shut tight, but her mind raced, wrestling with the stench of her husband’s descent, a sissy she didn’t know, a woman she’d have to face come morning.

Susan’s thoughts churned through the night, a tangle of anger and unease—he’d been Dylan, her Dylan, a man who’d fixed motors and held her through lean years, a Horwich roughneck she’d softened with her no-nonsense love. Now she was Diana, a sissy slag sneaking home from a sauna shag, her body a map of filth Susan hadn’t charted, a truth that shook her practical core. She hated the smell, the betrayal, but that heat gnawed at her, a seed of something she couldn’t uproot—lust, maybe, or power, a chance to see how far this Diana could fall, a question that kept her awake as the dawn crept grey through the curtains, her snores fading to silence, her mind a battlefield of shock and dark possibility.

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