After 10 years of marriage, two well-raised children, and a lot of hard work in life, we managed to build our house in a relatively upscale neighborhood of São Paulo. It was the dream of our lives, no doubt about it: the house was great, big, comfortable, and represented the status I had always dreamed of. I got tired of bringing friends over to show off, inviting them for afternoon tea or other gatherings that, deep down, were nothing but pure vanity. Everything was going very well, the routine was simple: I’d wake up early to get my children and my husband ready, and he would take them to school, where they would only come back late in the afternoon. The only thing that bothered me was the Wednesday market right in front of the house—in fact, the only mistake we’d made in choosing the lot, though impossible to foresee at the time. So, with our routine set and the market happening every Wednesday, this was the only day that, after sending my beloved ones off to their duties, the new, chic housewife here couldn’t go back to bed after her morning chores. Fine, but I’m not going to the market, I thought to myself; I won’t mix with those people! The furthest I dared go was to the gate to get the mail. It was this innocent, unpretentious act that set everything off. On one of those occasions I let my guard down and went to get the mail in what you might call more intimate clothes. Nothing scandalous either, just a tiny pair of shorts and a T-shirt, no bra, and flip-flops. Good grief, I was within my rights. Halfway there I saw the guy looking at me, a young man, an orange seller who was always shouting his offers. There was no turning back now; that would mean admitting defeat and, by the arrogant way that market vendor acted, it would be handing him the victory. I made an even more arrogant face and kept going toward the mailbox. Even though I didn’t look him straight in the eye, I knew he was looking at me. I’m no beauty queen, especially after my two children. But I keep my 60 kilos on my 1.68-meter frame, I’ve got a big ass and decent breasts. I lost to him in arrogance; I felt my face flush even before he, casually holding the orange he was sucking on with one hand and with the other down below his waist right there, let out that filthy whistle and called me, “hot mama! Want a little sucking?” That was too much arrogance. I grabbed the letters and spun around on my heel. Worse. “What a delicious ass!” was what I heard... I quickened my step back, “Yeah, hurry up and put on a bra, hot stuff!” ...he had noticed. “If you want to leave the curtain open so I can watch...!” was the last and final indecency I heard. A week passed and Wednesday came again. Carefully and decently dressed, I went to get the mail. He wasn’t there; in fact, I hadn’t heard his shouts yet. When I got to the gate he appeared. “What a scare!” I scolded him, but he kindly apologized and did more than that: he told me he was sorry for having said those things and apologized profusely. I was already letting it all go and heading back with the letters when he said, “Please accept this basket of fruit as a gesture of... at least a bit of neighborliness.” I accepted it; it was a fine basket, with exotic fruits, hazelnuts, apricots, nectarines, Italian grapes—really very beautiful. Yes, I accepted it, after all, there was nothing wrong with a distinguished lady like me accepting such a fine basket. But as I turned to go back, he gently lowered the tone; in a sly, low voice he said, “but if you want to leave the curtain open...” What a cheeky little bastard. I pretended not to hear. On my still unmade bed I sat down and began to savor the fruit... don’t forget the curtain, delicious pears... curtain open... juicy nectarines... what a bold boy. I peeked at him through the curtain. He was handsome, no doubt, with a thin little mustache, shameless in his gaze, in the way he talked, in the way he walked, in everything. I was like that.....not interested in him, but curious. The following week the matter came to mind several times. Explaining the basket to my husband wasn’t hard; besides, he would never suspect a market vendor. His image in his overalls and without a shirt—the boy’s uniform, every Wednesday I saw him like that, giving the impression that the overalls were never washed—kept coming back to me on Thursday, Friday, Saturday... and on all those days, along with memories of my everyday reality; I was a lonely housewife, my husband very dedicated to work. Poor man, even because of me, after all I was literally pushing him for better earnings, for better living conditions, but the truth is he was already falling a little short in bed. In short, a whole bunch of things together, and the next Wednesday was going to arrive. And it did! After getting rid of my morning chores I was alone at home, still in my pajamas and with that phrase in my head... “if you want to leave the curtain open...” I didn’t open it, but I didn’t close it all the way either, just a tiny crack so I could spy on him. It seemed like he already knew and was already there, strategically positioned, sucking an orange and with one hand holding his cock. My God in heaven, I thought, what am I doing... and I opened the curtain a little more... I can’t!... and I opened it a bit more... I’m married!... and I was fully exposed... I’m a respectable lady... and I started touching myself with him watching... I’m a lady, I’ve never cheated on my husband... and I showed him my breasts... then it all went to hell... he slyly jumped into my garden and hid behind a little tree, able to see me completely, lying naked on the bed... with my legs spread wide and masturbating like a teenager. What a situation: me, 32 years old, two children, a one-man woman there, naked, completely naked, slyly opening my bedroom window for him to come in. “Him who, your husband?” I imagined my friends asking me. No, a market vendor! I imagined myself answering. How shameful! But the lust was much stronger. I grabbed that man who smelled of cheap cologne, felt his sweaty skin, kissed his mouth with the taste of orange, rubbed myself all over him, scratched his back, shamelessly stripped him, an uncontrollable desire consumed me and I saw no end to it. He just let it all happen; what he was witnessing was a shameless little slut giving herself up with no resistance at all. I got to his cock without any trouble. I took it in my hand—in both hands, actually, because it wasn’t small. He and I were naked; the only care I took was to close the window again, and that was it. With his cock in my hand I made a move to take it in my mouth and he pulled back. “If you want to suck it, you’ll have to ask!” What nerve, what arrogance... but what a delight. I didn’t just ask, I begged: “Let me suck this hard cock of yours, you son of a bitch.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. “What’s that, what did I hear? Want to suck it, you shameless whore? Beg on all fours!” “Let me suck this mast, please, let this whore suck you.” Who would have thought! What happened from there on was a whole lot of filth. I, who always put on airs as a distinguished lady, a respected woman, had to humiliate myself many times to feel that man’s pleasure. I spread myself open like never before to take his cock in my pussy, got on all fours, got spanked (light taps, so as not to leave marks), was insulted, and fully accepted my condition as a slut. I took cock slaps to the face, can you believe it? Two things I didn’t do—I don’t even know how I didn’t give in—but I didn’t let him fuck me without a condom (the bastard had brought a pack in his pocket!) and I also didn’t let him eat my ass. Not because I didn’t want to—because with my husband I’ve always done anal—but, I don’t know, it was a scrap of dignity I managed to preserve. But don’t think I didn’t take a good beating to the face, in the heaviest porn-movie style. It was about three hours of pure filth, and orgasm after orgasm, screams I never imagined I’d make (all properly muffled by the sheets and pillows) and curses I never imagined I’d utter. Dazed after those three hours and watching that woman-destroying stud get dressed, I asked, “Who’s left in your stall?” “Next week you’ll know.” At the time I didn’t understand and let it go. He left and I stayed there all battered and wrecked. The first feeling that came over me was total regret—how could I, of all people, have done that. The second was fear: what if someone saw (unlikely, I quickly concluded), and what if my husband found out (impossible after I cleaned up all the evidence, nine condoms!)? The third was the best: it happened, I can’t change it, I don’t love my husband any less because of it and, above all, it was damn good to give myself up so shamelessly to a stranger. The rest of the week passed then between satisfaction and regret. The only weekly fuck I have with my husband was very good; I let myself go more, screamed more, and he even got scared: “the children will hear.” I masturbated another three times thinking about the market vendor. Another Wednesday came and I remembered, “next week you’ll know.” He was already waiting in the yard, but he wasn’t alone—there was a friend beside him, even more handsome than he was. What an outrage! I thought, I swear I thought, about not opening the curtain and forgetting everything, but I couldn’t. Minutes later I was on all fours, getting fucked by yet another stranger. The market vendor went back to the market after introducing me to the guy—I don’t even remember his name. I got fucked like a bitch again, ended up all slick with come once more. Week after week, every Wednesday, it’s the day the lady turns into a whore. And I do it with no ceremony at all; my husband has no idea. I’ve lost count of how many men have fucked me, but I’ve had situations where I was with three at the same time. The market vendor comes back now and then; he’s the one who runs the line. Mrs. Xepa is the market woman; Mrs. Whore is me!