You've Got WeaverMail Week 2

You've Got WeaverMail Week 2

Postby Philbill » Wed Mar 04, 2020 9:57 am

BRIAN CLARKE

I feel like my wife is slowly returning to “normal” and ending her cheerleader roleplay.

During Tuesday night’s sex, her energy started to fade before mine did.

Wednesday, she greeted me at the door with only a halfhearted blow job and was done after that.

Thursday, she was still wearing the short skirt, but we had our first decent conversation in nearly a week.

I know, I’m that guy.

The guy who complains about too much mind-blowing sex. If I were eighteen again, with the energy to match, maybe it’d be a different story. But Sandy is no Cassandra… and I married Cassandra, not Sandy. Even when confronted directly, she wouldn’t break character.

“Come on, Cassandra. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never gone by the name ‘Sandy.’ As much as I appreciate the positivity and the sex, just… you know… tell me what’s going on. What’s the game? Is this a punishment or a reward?”

She looked at me with confused eyes, tilting her head like an animal trying to understand a person speaking to it. Then she waved a dismissive hand and with a smile said, “Silly. I’m Sandy. Cassandra?” And then she made some sort of snort to say that she didn’t approve of that name.

It was a short-lived blessing to have my wife be so youthful and fit and spry. It was like a bastardization of that curse — instead of “may you live in interesting times,” it was “may you live with an interesting wife.”

I’ve survived the work week and I find myself going through my files and closing up shop at work, because it’s Friday and that’s what you do. I wonder what Cassandra or Sandy or whatever will be waiting for me at home.

As I’m about to put my computer to sleep, one last email comes through.

The subject again reads, simply: WeaverMail.

The sender is, also again, The Weaver.

I wonder if this is Cassandra yet again, reading my mind from a distance, and informing me of what to expect.

I read:

Have you taken stock of your wife recently? Don’t you feel that she’s a bit too into herself? Like she is everything and all worlds revolve around her? All decisions as well? She just seems to be in a constant state of needing, no… craving attention and willing to do anything to get it. Her opinion of herself couldn’t be higher. Face it, Brian, your wife Cassandra is a total Narcissist.

So this is what’s next, huh? Great. I’m sure this will make for a fun role play.

Cue eye roll.

CASSANDRA CLARKE

I barely make it an hour on the elliptical when I’m completely and utterly exhausted. I turn the shower on and let it get nice and hot to work out all of the aches I’ve developed.

I step in and the hot water feels perfect against my skin.

The word seems to echo around my brain.

“Perfect.”

It plants itself, develops roots, and spreads throughout my body.

I exit the shower and love the way I look in the mirror, all hot and wet and… perfect.

Even wet, my dyed blonde hair is immaculate. Not so immaculate that it takes away from my perfect breasts — the best money could buy.

They’re set off by my flat stomach — another doctor-given gift.

My ass is all mine, though, naturally come by and wonderfully round.

I pop in my contacts and spend an hour on my face. Putting on my makeup is one of my favorite hobbies. It’s a great excuse to pass that time looking in a mirror.

God, I’m gorgeous.

BRIAN CLARKE

I get home and the pink car’s gone, replaced by a flashy, attention-getting sports car. I don’t know where she’s getting the money to keep up this charade, but we really need to sit down and have a nice long discussion about it. She can’t sacrifice our future to play some weird sex game.

“Sandy?” I call out into the house as I enter.

“It’s Cassandra, actually.”

Oh thank god, I think. She’s back to being herself.

I find her in the bedroom in a sexy, expensive-looking negligee and teetering high heels, admiring her body in our full-length mirror.

That moment where I thought she was back to being herself washes away completely. The physical signs are undeniable. She’s suddenly blonde. I mean, that’s easily explained by just a trip to the salon. Her breasts, however, are large and round and fake. How does a woman start a day with real breasts and end them with fake ones? I mean, surgery, yeah, but it doesn’t look like she has scars or anything. I squint. Is her nose smaller? Are her eyes blue? I’m confused, but she brings me back to the present, saying, “Lavish me with compliments, Brian. Tell me what you love about me and, if it pleases me enough, I’ll let you pleasure me further.”

Her tone is condescending, dripping with ego.

The narcissist, huh? I’ll play along and see where this goes.

“A more beautiful woman has never walked this earth,” I say.

“A good start, but please, be specific. You win no favors with general platitudes.”

I step behind her and lock eyes with her in the mirror before verbally assessing her body. I grip her tits in my hands, kneading them. “These are the tits that schoolboys dream of. The kind they find in their daddy’s dirty magazines and spend hours jerking off thinking about.”

She purrs. Apparently, I’m okay at this game. I run my hands down her sides and continue, “The way your stomach goes in so tightly below them puts all the Barbies in the world to shame.”

She pushes her ass back against me. It’s a hell of an ass. I grip it. “This ass demands to be manhandled. It begs to be gripped and admired and spanked.”

She turns around and kisses me passionately, but pushes me away just as quickly. She strides to the bed, sitting at the edge, and lifting her negligee to reveal a fully shaved pussy.

“Lick this for me. Worship me with your tongue.”

With all the attention she’s given me this past week, it’s only fair that I go down on her. Plus, I’m pretty good at cunnilingus. I can typically get her off in four or five minutes. I start to lick around her lower lips and she shudders. I look up to see that she’s not looking down. I can tell by the direction of her gaze that her eyes are locked on her reflection. She really gets into these roles. I lick her wet enough to start to focus on her clit. I bring a couple fingers into the game, pistoning them in and out. She starts to softly say “Yes.” Then, it becomes louder. Next, it’s a scream and I feel her juices flood my mouth. She puts her hand on my head and shoves me to the ground. “I want to go out on the town. I want people to stare. And you’re going to take me.”

I parade my wife through a popular street full of restaurants and bars downtown. The conceited way she carries herself does seem to get a lot of attention. And then I smell it… or should I say her? You’re married to a girl long enough, you go down on her enough, you get to know her aroused scent. I realize, she’s getting off on the attention. Not a figure of speech, she’s literally getting off on the looks.

I wonder how far she’ll take the character she’s playing. If last week is any indication, the answer is “all the way.”

“Do you know where you’d get a lot of attention?” I ask.

She stops her stride. She bites. Raising an eyebrow, she asks, “Where is that?”

“A strip club.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, because I know my husband would not need to go fishing for other women to gawk at when he has this —“ she gestures down her body “— at home.”

“I don’t. I haven’t. I was just thinking about how hot it would be to see you up on that stage and have all of those men — an entire club full of men — giving you all of their attention.”

Her knees go weak at the thought and it’s only through my quick reflexes grabbing her that she’s able to stay upright.

She takes a deep breath, rights herself, and moans out, “That could be fun.”

We drive for about an hour. I’ve nearly lost her, but she still looks enough like herself that I’m not about to bring her to a joint that’s too local. She’s so annoyed that it’s only the two of us for that amount of time that she flashes her fake tits to a couple of cars at successive stop lights. She gets a series of hoots, hollers, and honks, and that seems to briefly placate her.

We pull into the Player’s parking lot and, as fate or luck would have it, it just so happens to be Amateur Night.

Cassandra doesn’t want to wait and I have to give the four women in front of her twenty bucks a piece so that Cassandra can go out onto that stage. She doesn’t falter a bit, stepping out there. There’s no stage fright built into this girl. She may not have any particularly skilled stripper moves, but the way she moves her body doesn’t require many, just some swaying of the hips and some undulating. She’s quickly unzipping her dress and lifting it up over her head, revealing her bra-less melons to an enthusiastic crowd. She then leans against a pole so that she can focus their attention on her ass — the thong leaving little to the imagination. She slips that thong off and tosses it out into the crowd, building them to even more of a fervor. Feeling the gaze of a good fifty or sixty men on her naked body drives Cassandra crazy. She slides to the floor and starts to finger herself right there on the stage. Apparently, this is against the rules. Of the contest? Of the establishment? We’re never told which, but we’re kicked out regardless. Cassandra spends the whole ride home, the entire hour plus, in the back seat of my car, with her legs spread wide and her eyes squeezed shut. She fingers herself as she clearly remembers and embraces her time on stage.

It’s weird. The girl I married? We had sex in the dark for the first few years of our relationship because she didn’t want me — the man who loves her — to see her naked. I guess all of this roleplay allows her to explore different aspects of her personality that she hasn’t previously.

We get home and into the bedroom. Cassandra takes off her clothes and lays in bed. I wonder if this is when we’ll finally have sex. I want to feel that body. Instead, she commands, “Look at me and jerk off.”

Her attitude leaves a lot to be desired, but she does look good. I relieve myself of my pants and stroke myself hard, gripping my cock as I look at her face up close. I notice how unnaturally full her lips are and I start to stroke myself faster, taking in all the new variations of my wife; of this new version that she’s created. Again, it’s like a stranger in our bed. Less pleasant than Sandy, but no less pleasing. Once again, I find it to be an incredible turn on. It’s apparently a turn on for the both of us, though. She watches me stroke my cock while I take in her sexiness and she squirms, biting her lower lip and barely stifling a moan. I reach out towards one of her tits with my free hand and she slaps it down. She wags a finely manicured finger in my face and scolds, “Look. Don’t touch.”

Now I angrily grip my cock, defiant as I squirt out cum directed right onto her breasts. Even though she’s untouched by either of us, she still shivers through an orgasm of her own. She locks eyes with me. “I made that happen. My hot body turned you on and made you cum. Say thank you.”

I laugh, but I manage to sneak out a “Thank you” as well.

She goes to the bathroom to clean herself up, getting lost for some time in the bathroom mirrors before returning to bed and going to sleep without so much as a good night kiss for me.

As my “wife” sleeps beside me, some thoughts strike me — All of this seems too much to be an act. She could pretend to be someone else, but the physical things? Too much.

So, naturally, I wonder what if this isn’t her doing? What if she’s not in control of these changes? The rabbit hole deepens as a weird realization hits me— What if it’s these emails I’ve been getting consistently? Well, at least two weeks in a row now. What if they have some power over her… like real power… the power to reshape reality? What if she’s not the source? She’s just an unwilling pawn. I hope it’s not wrong that I find that an even bigger turn on than the idea that this is all role play of her making.

The idea of all of this makes me eager for whatever Friday has to offer. I can’t imagine a man will ever experience a more dragged out work week than I’m about to, desperate for Friday and the arrival of a certain e-mail.
Philbill
Transformation Master
 
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