Chapter 7: Susan’s Descent into Desire
The days after Diana’s sauna return stretched taut in their Westhoughton home, Susan’s mind a simmering pot as she watched her husband move through their routines—Dylan by day, grease-streaked and gruff, fixing engines in the garage, a man she’d known for decades. But the night’s stench clung to her senses, a phantom reek of spunk and sweat that painted Diana over him, a sissy tart who’d staggered in dripping with sex, a truth Susan couldn’t un-smell. She’d feigned sleep then, her snores a shield, but now, over tea and toast, her hazel eyes tracked him, peeling back his mask, her thoughts shifting from shock to a darker, hungrier space—a realization blooming that she could twist this, mold him into her sissy, a toy for her own filthy pleasure, a descent she’d orchestrate with a conductor’s glee.
At first, she’d wrestled with it—anger, hurt, a wife betrayed by a husband shagged rotten in a Bolton sauna, his arsehole a cum-soaked wreck, his gob stinking of cock, a secret he’d hid behind his mechanic’s grunt. She’d pictured it raw—Diana bent over, some sweaty sod slamming her sissy shitter, spunk flooding her guts, another prick choking her throat, cum splattering her blouse, a scene that had churned her stomach with disgust. But the days wore on, and that flicker of heat from that night grew, a dirty ember fanned by her own hands—her practical Bolton lass shell cracking as she replayed it, not with revulsion now, but with a wet, twisted thrill. She could see it—Dylan, her man, her rock, turned into Diana, her sissy slag, a canvas she could paint with muck, a tool for her own gratification, a power she hadn’t known she craved.
By Wednesday, over a lukewarm cuppa in the kitchen, her thoughts turned graphic, depraved—she imagined Diana on her knees, skirt ripped, arsehole gaping as a stranger bred her raw, cum oozing thick down her thighs, her gob stuffed with a fat cock, spit and spunk dripping, Susan watching, legs spread, frigging her twat till it sopped, her voice barking orders—shag her harder, flood her sissy guts! The image made her flush, a heat pooling low, her practical hands itching to grip this, to push Diana further, to see how deep she could drag her into the filth. She wasn’t just a wife anymore—she could be a fiend, a mistress of this sissy tart, her husband’s descent a playground for her own dark lust, a realization that hardened her resolve, her hazel eyes glinting with a new, wicked fire.
She tested it Thursday night, the telly off, the gas fire ticking as they sat on the sagging sofa, Dylan’s broad frame beside her, oblivious in his silence. “Been out much, love?” she asked, voice casual but edged, fishing for a crack in his shell, her nose still haunted by that sauna stink. He grunted, “Aye, now and then,” his eyes on the carpet, a mechanic’s dodge she saw through now. She leaned closer, her hand brushing his arm, a smile masking the storm inside—oh, you’ve been out, you sissy sod, shagged rotten, haven’t you?—her mind racing with plans. She could make him hers, Diana, a slag to command, a sissy to ruin for her own pleasure, a descent she’d orchestrate, her twat tingling at the thought, a Bolton lass turned depraved puppeteer, her husband’s secret her leash.
By Friday, her struggle was over, the hurt burned away by a fierce, filthy want—she’d take this Diana, this sissy he’d become, and twist her into something lush, a muck-queen she’d shag through others, a toy to push past John, past the sauna, into depths she’d revel in. Over tea, she watched him sip, his hands scarred from spanners, and she saw her now—Diana, arsehole dripping, gob smeared, a sissy she’d parade, a slut to degrade for her own climax, her voice a whip—suck it, you tart, take it raw! She’d fuck her through strangers, watch her drown in spunk, her own fingers plunging deep as Diana howled, a power that made her wet, a descent from wife to fiend she embraced, her practical love now a dark, depraved lust, a Bolton woman reborn in the muck of her husband’s ruin.
Susan’s thoughts solidified Saturday, the lads gone, the house theirs—she’d start slow, a bracelet maybe, a gift to bind Diana to her, a signal of her reign. She’d push her, see how far she’d fall—three blokes, maybe, cocks ramming her sissy arsehole, Susan watching, frigging herself silly, a conductor of filth, her pleasure tied to Diana’s wreck. Dylan had been her rock, a Horwich lad she’d steadied, but Diana was her creation now, a sissy slag she’d sculpt, a husband turned toy for her own dark joy, a descent she’d savor, her struggle a memory, her depravity a crown she’d wear as she dragged them both into the abyss, her twat aching for the chaos she’d unleash. |
I hope you have had a chance to read part 1 & 2 also 
