FabSwingers.com forum: Midlife Transformation: Dylan to Diana Part 4

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

Chapter 10: The Threesome

The night descended thick and heavy, Diana trembling in her lilac dress, the lace brushing her thighs like a whisper of doom, her wig pinned tight, red nails gleaming—a sissy poised on the edge of Susan’s dark design. Susan drove, her hands iron on the wheel, hazel eyes wild with a conductor’s fervor, the rented caravan near Rivington Pike a battered husk nestled in the woods, its isolation a perfect stage for the filth she’d orchestrated. Inside, the air reeked of damp pine and stale ash, a flickering bulb casting jagged shadows across peeling walls, three blokes waiting—Tom, burly and bearded, a wall of hair and muscle; Jake, wiry and inked, arms roped with tattoos; Lee, lean, blue eyes piercing like shards of ice. They smirked as Diana stepped in, Susan behind her, her voice a venomous lash slicing the tension. “She’s yours, you rancid fuckers—my sissy slag to ruin. I call the shots—shag her raw till she’s a dripping wreck.”

Her dress was hiked in a flash, knickers torn off in a single brutal yank, bent over a creaking table, arse thrust high, quivering under Susan’s gaze, a sissy tart laid bare for the pack she’d hunted on Fabswingers. Susan settled nearby, her tank top straining, hazel eyes locked on, fingers tugging her jeans open, her practical shell long shed for a fiend’s savage glee, her breath quickening as she barked her first command. “Tom, you hairy bastard—plow her sissy trench with your meaty hog, ram it deep till her guts squelch, then blast your rancid batter in her shitter. Make her squeal like a stuck pig!” Tom grinned, feral, dropping his trousers, his cock a grotesque slab—knobbed, veined, glistening—spitting a thick gob on her arsehole before slamming in, splitting her with a howl that bounced off the tin walls, the burn a white-hot agony as he sank to his balls, pounding her with wet, meaty thwacks, her body jolting under his bulk.

Susan’s voice turned to Jake, a new venom dripping fresh and foul. “Jake, you tattooed git—skewer her sissy gob with your slimy pike, shove it down her gullet till she’s gargling your muck, then hose her throat with your stinking slime. Chok e the tart proper!” Jake stepped up, cock long and veiny, a dripping spear he forced past her lips, her jaw stretching wide as he thrust deep, gagging her with a wet gurgle, spit and precum spilling as he fucked her throat, his hands rough in her wig, her eyes watering as she sucked, a sissy impaled under Susan’s command. Tom roared, breeding her arsehole with a guttural bellow, his rancid batter flooding her guts, scalding and thick, pulling out with a sloppy pop, cum oozing down her thighs, and Susan snapped, “Lick it clean, you sissy sow!” She turned, trembling, taking his cock in her gob, tasting her arse and his muck, choking on the vile brew, a slag broken open as Susan watched, fingers plunging into her sopping twat, her climax shuddering through her.

Lee moved in, Susan’s voice shifting to a third, vicious lexicon. “Lee, you lean fuck—gorge her sissy pit with your gnarled stump, hammer her till her arsehole’s a wrecked chasm, then spew your putrid sludge in her bowels. Ruin the bitch!” Lee’s cock—short, thick, a battering ram—slid into her cum-slick arsehole with a wet squelch, stretching her wider, fucking her savage, his thrusts rocking her forward, hands bruising her hips as he drove deep, a relentless assault Susan savored, her jeans off now, frigging her twat raw, her moans a dark hymn. Jake grunted, hosing her throat with stinking slime, spunk spilling over her chin, and she cleaned him, gob aching, Susan cumming again as Lee slammed harder, spewing his putrid sludge with a yell, cum splattering the table, Diana licking him clean, her body a quivering wreck, Susan’s climax a roar of triumph over her sissy’s ruin.

They didn’t stop—hours of it—Tom, Jake, Lee cycling through, relentless, shagging her arsehole raw, breeding her till it gaped, a sissy sewer overflowing with their loads, her gob a dripping mess as she cleaned each cock, Susan’s commands a filthy symphony—“Plow her trench! Skewer her gullet! Gorge her pit!”—her twat a sopping furnace as she watched, cumming again and again, her body a quivering mass of lust. He felt it, Dylan’s world shattering, a mechanic’s life of spanners drowned in Diana’s muck, a husband turned slag under Susan’s reign, her pleasure a dark crown she wore as the blokes spent themselves, retreating with sated grins, leaving the caravan a stinking shell of their excess, a sissy obliterated beyond recognition.

Susan rose, naked, glistening, kneeling behind Diana, spreading her cheeks to reveal the ruined arsehole—a pulsing, cum-filled crater, a sissy’s trophy she’d crafted with her Fabswingers hunt. “My gorgeous muck-pig,” she purred, voice thick with lust and awe, leaning in, her tongue darting out to lap the mingled loads—Tom’s rancid batter, Jake’s stinking slime, Lee’s putrid sludge—a bitter, salty feast she savored slow, sucking it out in greedy, wet gulps, her lips smacking with relish as she probed deep, scooping the thick, steaming brew from Diana’s wrecked shitter. She moaned, a low, guttural sound, her mouth a furnace on the tender flesh, slurping the cum with a fiend’s delight, her tongue swirling in the gape, tasting every rancid drop, her hands gripping Diana’s arse to hold her steady as she feasted, a Bolton lass turned depraved queen reveling in the filth she’d wrought.

She lingered, savoring it—each lick a claim, each suck a triumph—her nose buried in the stink, her gob smeared with spunk, plunging deeper to draw out more, swallowing the vile torrent with a shudder of glee, Diana whimpering under the tender assault, her body twitching, a sissy spent and adored. Susan’s fingers scooped the edges, feeding herself the last sticky ropes, then sucked straight from the source, her mouth a vacuum on the wrecked hole, licking until the flow ebbed, kissing it soft, a final mark on the muck she’d orchestrated, her twat dripping as she relished the taste, a conductor sated by her sissy’s ruin. She crawled round, lifting Diana’s head, kissing her—deep, fierce, cum-slick, sharing the rancid bounty, a tender clash of lips that sealed their descent. “You’re my fucking masterpiece,” she whispered, hands stroking Diana’s tear-streaked face, a love forged in the caravan’s filth, Susan’s depravity a crown she’d wear, Diana her sissy muse, broken and cherished.

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

Chapter 11: Susan’s Fabswingers Dogging Scheme

Susan’s grip on Diana had tightened into an iron vise since the caravan, her hazel eyes glinting with a fiend’s triumph, her Bolton practicality now a distant memory as she wielded her husband’s sissy transformation like a dark scepter. She’d tasted it—Diana’s arsehole dripping with cum, her gob a mess of spunk, a sissy slag she’d sculpted from Dylan’s silence—and it wasn’t enough. Her mind churned with a ravenous need to push further, to see her sissy debased in new, vile ways, her pleasure a roaring furnace stoked by every thrust, every load. Late October, wind rattling their Westhoughton windows, she hunched over the laptop, the glow casting her face in a wicked sheen, her fingers dancing across the keys as she logged into Fabswingers—username “SissyPuppetMaster”—a den of muck she’d mastered, her tool to orchestrate Diana’s next ruin.

She’d sniffed out dogging from the site’s forums—laybys where horny sods parked up, cocks out, shagging anything that moved, a public filth-fest she’d bend to her will. Her mind buzzed with control—she’d turned Dylan, her Horwich lad of 25 years, into her sissy toy, a slag she could dangle for her own wet glee, and this was her next canvas, a layby off the A666 near Bolton, 30 miles out, a perfect pit for her depraved art. She typed her post with a predator’s precision: “Sissy bitch, 55, for 6 filthy studs—raw, rough, no mercy. A666 layby, soon. Need you to ravage her sissy flesh—pummel her arse-canyon, chok e her gullet with your juice, glaze her with your grime. I watch, twat gushing—pics and vids a must. Serious only, no soft pricks.” She uploaded a snap—Diana’s black skirt hiked, arse bare, face blurred—a lure for the pack, her mind graphic with intent, her sissy a cum-soaked puppet she’d dangle for six cocks, her climax tied to their savagery.

Replies flooded in—lads from Bolton, Bury, Chorley, their messages a chorus of crude lust she sifted through over days, her tea cooling as she judged each prick with a fiend’s eye, her control absolute, her twat tingling with power. “ChorleyRipper”—30s, squat, a stubby cock in his pic, boasting of layby shags, his “love a messy hole” sparking her interest, but his grainy vid raised doubts—real or a wanker? “BoltonBeast”—40s, hulking, a girthy rod leaking in his snap, claiming he’d “smashed slags in public,” a brute she pictured coring Diana’s arse-canyon, his clear vid of spunk flying locking him in. “BurySpike”—lean, 20s, a long, curved prick, his “done dogging, love a crowd” hitting her mark, his sharp pics and wanking clip sealing his spot, her mind alight with his juice chok ing her sissy’s gullet.

She kept hunting—“AcerGut”—30s, wiry, a thick, veined cock, his “fucked in laybys, no limits” a tick, his vid of a grunting cumshot proving his grit, a yes for her pack. “WiganSlasher”—burly, 40s, a meaty shaft in crisp pics, his “shagged tarts raw, love an audience” a thrill, his vid of spunk splattering cement clinching it, her twat wet as she saw him glazing Diana’s flesh. Last was “PikeReaver”—lean, 30s, a short, brutal prick, his “dogging pro, wrecked holes” a promise, his pics and vid of juice spurting finalizing her six, a crew she’d hand-picked to ravage her sissy, her pleasure a dark crown she’d wear. She messaged them, voice a steel lash—times, signals, her rules: “Pummel her arse-canyon, chok e her gullet, glaze her flesh—I’m the puppet master, you dance to my tune.” They agreed, cocks twitching, her control a rush, a Bolton lass turned depraved queen, Diana her marionette, a sissy she’d dangle in the layby’s muck.

Susan’s mind reveled in it—she’d sniffed Diana’s sauna filth, turned it into this, a husband she’d once steadied now a slag she’d shatter, her power absolute as she set the date, her twat sopping with anticipation. She’d push her further than the caravan, six cocks to drown her in grime, a public wreck she’d savor, her practical love a memory, her depravity a throne she’d sit as she watched Diana’s flesh ravaged, her sissy a cum-soaked puppet dancing to her dark whims.

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

Chapter 12: The Dogging Invitation

Susan’s lust had festered into a grotesque, pulsating beast since the caravan, her control over Diana a jagged crown she wore with savage pride, her hazel eyes burning with a fiend’s rapture as she broached her next descent over a bottle of cheap red in their Westhoughton kitchen. Crisp packets littered the table, the air thick with her rancid intent, her voice a guttural snarl slicing through the quiet. “Diana, I’ve scoured Fabswingers—dogging pits. A666 layby, 30 miles out, six festering pricks waiting to defile you. I’m hauling you there—pummel your sissy arse-sump till it’s a sloshing cesspit, stuff your gullet with their festering ooze, glaze your flesh with their rank sludge—while I watch, twat spurting like a busted dam. You game for this putrid plunge?”

Her heart jolted, the caravan a mere whisper against this abyss—six cocks, a public shag-pit dwarfing her secret filth, a sissy’s spiral into Susan’s twisted lair. Panic flared—exposure, ruin—but Susan’s feral glare ignited a slick, vile heat, Dylan’s restraint crushed by Diana’s surrender to her puppet master’s leash. “You’re a bloody lunatic,” she rasped, voice quaking with a dark thrill, hands clawing the table’s edge, the red wine trembling in her glass, a sissy snared in Susan’s grip. “Aye, I’m in.” Susan’s grin ripped wide, a fiend’s victory, her practical shell a rotting husk as she leaned in, her voice a slimy chant. “Fucking ripe. Tomorrow night—black skirt, stockings, bare arse. I’ve got the pricks primed.” She didn’t hint at the final humiliation—no whisper of her piss-soaked surprise—a secret festering in her mind, a horny slut’s gift to degrade her sissy further, her ecstasy a volcano primed to erupt.

She’d posted it—“SissyPuppetMaster” summoning six brutes to the A666 layby, her Fabswingers scheme a live wire sparking from the night before, her mind a cesspool of depravity—she’d warped Dylan, her mechanic of 25 years, into this, a sissy slag she’d dangle for her festering pack, her twat a gushing sewer as she pictured it—arse-sump pummeled, gullet stuffed, flesh glazed—a Bolton lass reborn in slime, her rapture surging with each breeding she’d orchestrate. She kissed her, tongue plunging deep, a vow of muck sealed in the kitchen’s fug, her hands clawing Diana’s hips, a promise of the chaos brewing, her control a tidal wave she’d ride. Her thoughts were a rancid fever—she’d sniffed Diana’s sauna filth, turned her husband into her toy, and now she’d watch her sissy’s flesh desecrated, her ecstasy a shrieking crescendo with every load dumped into her slag.

They schemed it tight—Susan’s voice a vile dirge as she laid it out—headlight flashes, her orders barked in the dark, a torrent of sludge she’d unleash, her mind dripping with the layby’s stink, Diana’s flesh a sissy sump she’d drown in ooze. She prepped the next day, shaving her legs raw, nails a vicious red, choosing a black skirt that clung like a second skin, stockings hissing against her thighs, no knickers—a sissy primed for Susan’s altar, her control a noose cinched tight since the sauna, a husband she’d once shared tea with now a slag she’d parade. Susan watched, her nod a razor’s edge, jeans and tank top taut over her frame, her energy a howling tempest, hazel eyes a furnace of dominance—she wasn’t just his wife, she was his breaker, a fiend who’d sniffed his sissy stench and forged it into her empire, the layby ahead a slime-drenched shrine for her reign.

Dusk bled into night as they piled into the Fiesta, Susan’s hands steady, Diana’s gut a churning pit of dread and heat, the drive silent but for the engine’s growl, the countryside a blur of shadows, a sissy’s doom sealed by her wife’s festering will. The layby loomed—a gravel scar off the A666, six cars idling, headlights dim, a pack of brutes spilling out as Susan parked, their cocks twitching in the gloom, her voice a jagged whip. “Here’s my sissy slag—pummel her arse-sump till it’s a festering bog, stuff her gullet with your rancid ooze, glaze her flesh with your stinking sludge. Breed her raw, you vile curs—I’m watching, twat gushing!” Her skirt was ripped up, arse bare, bent over the bonnet, a sissy offering under Susan’s gaze, her ecstasy spiking as the first brute—BoltonBeast—slammed his girthy rod into her arse-sump, a sloshing cesspit breached with a wet squelch, her howl swallowed by the night, Susan’s fingers plunging into her sopping twat, a first shudder of rapture as he bred her deep, festering ooze flooding her guts.

BurySpike stepped up, his curved prick a dripping spear, Susan’s voice a new snarl. “Stuff her sissy gullet with your slimy barb, jam it deep till she’s retching your muck, glaze her with your rank sludge!” He forced it in, her lips splitting wide, gullet jammed full, ooze leaking as he thrust, Susan’s twat spurting as she watched, her ecstasy doubling with his breeding, a second load glazing her flesh, her sissy a dripping wreck. The pack cycled—WiganSlasher, AcerGut, PikeReaver, ChorleyRipper—each pummeling her arse-sump into a sloshing bog, stuffing her gullet with rancid ooze, glazing her with stinking sludge, Susan’s rapture a shrieking peak with each breeding, her twat a gushing torrent, cumming hard as Diana’s flesh became a sissy sump, a slag ravaged under her command, her mind a slime-soaked revelry of control.

Then came Susan’s surprise—a horny, dirty slut’s gift—she shoved Diana to her knees, skirt a sodden rag, and straddled her face, her voice a guttural hiss. “Open your sissy maw, you festering tart—take my golden gush!” A scalding stream erupted, piss blasting Diana’s face, flooding her gob, a rancid torrent she gagged on, Susan’s ecstasy exploding as she drenched her, a humiliation that crowned her sissy’s ruin, her twat convulsing with a final, shrieking climax, the pack jeering as Diana sputtered, a slag soaked in her wife’s filth. Susan laughed, a fiend’s cackle, wiping her dripping twat, her hazel eyes alight with triumph—she’d bred her sissy raw, glazed her in muck, and now pissed her into submission, a Bolton slut’s ultimate claim, her rapture a howling beast fed by Diana’s degradation.

He felt it—Dylan’s world of spanners and silence a rotting corpse, a Horwich lad she’d steadied now a slag she’d shattered, Susan’s love a festering flame she’d stoked, the bracelet a faint chain to their past, now a shackle to her unutterable whims, the layby a crucible of her sissy’s annihilation, her mind a putrid ecstasy she’d savor with every pummel, stuff, and glaze, her golden gush the final mark of her reign.

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