Her Year

The boots called to her from the back of the closet.

Sarah had almost forgotten about them—a gift from a boutique she couldn't quite remember entering, purchased in a daze months ago and never worn. Black patent leather, thigh-high, with a silver zipper running the entire length from ankle to the soft inside of her upper thigh. They'd seemed too much then. Too aggressive. Too slutty for someone like her.

But tonight was New Year's Eve, and Richard's firm was throwing a party, and she'd already slipped into the tight black dress he'd picked out for her—modest, knee-length, appropriate for the wife of a junior partner.

She stared at herself in the mirror and felt… nothing. Just a pleasant, forgettable woman in a pleasant, forgettable dress. The kind of woman people's eyes slid right past.

Her fingers found the boots anyway.

The leather was impossibly smooth. Cool against her palms but somehow warming as she held them, like they were breathing, like they were alive. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, her heart beating strangely fast, and slid her right foot into the first boot.

The zipper sang as she pulled it up—a long, slow zzzzzzip that seemed to vibrate through her entire leg. The leather embraced her calf, her knee, climbed higher, moulding to the shape of her thigh like a second skin. When the zipper reached the top, clicking into place with a soft snick, Sarah gasped.

Heat bloomed from the boot. Radiating up her leg, pooling between her thighs, spreading through her belly like warm honey. Her nipples tightened beneath her dress. Her breath caught.

"Oh…"

She felt good. Better than good. She felt like she was waking up from a long, grey sleep, colours sharpening, senses heightening. Everything seemed more vivid suddenly—the silk of her dress against her skin, the soft carpet beneath her bare foot, the rapid flutter of her own pulse.

She reached for the second boot.

Zzzzzzip.

The transformation hit her like lightning.

Her spine arched, a moan escaping her lips as the heat exploded through her body—not painful but intense, overwhelming, reshaping her from the inside out. She felt her breasts swell against the fabric of her dress, straining the modest neckline, growing heavier and rounder and impossibly sensitive. Her waist cinched tighter. Her ass filled out, each cheek becoming fuller, firmer, more perfect.

Her hands flew to the bedsheets, gripping tight, and she watched her fingernails extend—lengthening into sharp, elegant talons painted a deep, wicked red. They looked like weapons. They looked like they could scratch down a man's back and leave marks that wouldn't fade for weeks.

"Fuck—" The word came out different. Her voice had dropped half an octave, becoming smokier, more knowing. Her lips tingled and she touched them, feeling them plump beneath her fingertips, becoming fuller, softer—the kind of lips made for one thing. Mean, cock-sucking lips that promised filthy things.

She stumbled to the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was devastating.

Her mousy brown hair had darkened to a glossy raven black that tumbled over her shoulders like spilled ink. Her features had sharpened—cheekbones higher, those new lips fuller and painted the same wicked red as her nails, eyes a pale icy grey that seemed to see through everything. Her body was obscene in the best possible way: tits straining against her dress so hard the fabric creaked, ass curving out in a way that would make men stupid and women jealous, legs endless in those gleaming black boots.

She looked like a weapon. She looked like a goddess.

And she felt…

Powerful.

Sarah turned slowly, admiring herself from every angle, running her new sharp nails down her curves. Every touch sent little sparks of pleasure through her. She felt hot—not just physically, though her skin was flushed and warm—but hot. Sexy. Dangerous. The kind of woman who walked into a room and made everyone else feel small.

The kind of woman she'd always secretly envied.

The kind of woman she'd always secretly wanted to be.

Why had she been hiding this? Why had she spent years being polite and modest and good when being bad felt this fucking amazing? She thought about Richard—sweet, reliable, boring Richard—and felt a flicker of something that might have been affection.

Then she thought about Kyle Brennan.

Richard's rival. Tall, dark, powerful. The way he'd looked at her at every firm party, undressing her with his eyes, and she'd always pretended not to notice because good wives didn't notice things like that.

Her pussy clenched.

She noticed now. She noticed everything now. And she wanted.

Sarah smiled at her reflection—a slow, predatory smile that showed too many teeth—and went to find her husband.

---

Richard's jaw actually dropped when she walked into the living room.

"Sarah? What—you look—"

"Different?" She ran her tongue over her new lips, tasting the lipstick. "I feel different. I feel amazing." She walked toward him slowly, hips swaying, watching his eyes drop helplessly to her tits. "Do you like it?"

"I… yes, but…" He swallowed hard. "Your hair? And your… everything? How did you—"

"Does it matter?" She stopped in front of him, close enough that her swollen breasts nearly brushed his chest. He looked so small suddenly. So inadequate. Had he always been this pathetic? "I thought you'd be happy. Your wife is hot now." She traced one sharp nail down his cheek, leaving a faint white line. "Isn't that what every man wants?"

"Of course, I just—"

"Then stop asking questions and take me to this party." She pressed a kiss to his cheek—leaving a perfect red lip print—and stepped back. "I want everyone to see me."

---

The party was at David Ashworth's penthouse.

Sarah felt the shift in the room the moment she walked in on Richard's arm. Heads turning. Conversations stuttering. Women's eyes narrowing with instant, instinctive hatred while their husbands tried—and failed—not to stare at the raven-haired vision in black that had just arrived.

God, it felt good. It felt like power. It felt like every set of eyes was a hand stroking her skin, worshipping her, acknowledging what she'd become.

She'd spent her whole life trying to be invisible. Now invisibility seemed like the worst kind of death.

"Get me champagne," she told Richard without looking at him. "The good stuff."

He hesitated—probably surprised by her tone—but went. Of course he went. What else was he going to do?

Sarah's pale eyes scanned the room until they landed on exactly what she wanted.

Kyle Brennan.

Six foot two. Broad shoulders. Square jaw. Dark hair silvering at the temples in a way that screamed money and power and experience. He was holding court near the windows, some junior associate hanging on his every word, but he looked up when Sarah walked toward him.

His expression shifted from polite interest to naked hunger in the space of a heartbeat.

"Sarah." His voice was a low rumble. "You look… fuck, you look incredible."

"I know." She stepped into his space, closer than a married woman should, close enough to smell his cologne. Her nipples hardened against her dress. Her cunt throbbed. She wanted him—wanted him with a ferocity that felt almost feral. "I'm tired of pretending I don't notice the way you look at me, Kyle."

His pupils dilated. "And how do I look at you?"

"Like you want to bend me over the nearest surface and fuck me until I forget my own name." She traced one sharp nail down his tie. "Am I wrong?"

"No." His hand found her hip, squeezed. "You're not wrong."

"Then stop wasting both our time." She leaned up, her lips brushing his ear, her tits pressing against his chest. "Guest room. Five minutes. Don't make me wait."

She walked away without looking back, knowing he was watching her ass, knowing he'd follow.

They always followed.

---

The guest bedroom was dark except for the city lights streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere below them, a hundred people were counting down to midnight. Sarah didn't care.

She was on her knees on David Ashworth's Egyptian cotton sheets, Kyle's thick cock stretching her new lips, and she had never felt more herself.

Her sharp nails raked lightly down his thighs as she took him deeper—not enough to break skin, just enough to make him hiss, to remind him that she was dangerous even while she worshipped his cock. Her lips were made for this. She could feel it now, the way they stretched and sealed around him, the obscene wet sounds she made as she bobbed her head, drool running down her chin.

"Fuck—" Kyle's hand fisted in her black hair. "Jesus, Sarah—"

She pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at him through her lashes, lips swollen and shiny. "Tell me I'm better than whatever boring vanilla wives you've been fucking."

"So much better. Christ, that mouth—"

"This mouth is going to ruin you." She stroked him slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him, so much bigger than Richard. So much more satisfying. "But first, I want you inside me."

She climbed onto the bed, positioning herself on all fours, looking back over her shoulder at him. Her dress was bunched around her waist. She wasn't wearing panties—hadn't been able to find any that fit her new ass.

"Well?" She arched her back, presenting herself. "Show me what you've got."

The first thrust drove the breath from her lungs in a broken moan.

He was big—stretching her in ways Richard never had, filling her completely, hitting spots that made her vision blur with pleasure. The boots creaked softly as she braced herself against the mattress, and with every creak, she felt the heat intensifying, felt herself becoming more. More wicked. More powerful. More perfectly, gloriously evil.

"Harder," she demanded. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Kyle obliged.

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. Sarah's moans climbed higher, shameless and loud, and she didn't care who heard. Let them hear. Let the whole party know that Richard's wife was getting her brains fucked out by his rival. Let Richard hear, if he was looking for her. Let him stand outside the door and listen to his wife scream another man's name.

The thought made her clench around Kyle's cock, and he groaned.

"So fucking tight—I'm close—"

"Inside." The word came out like a command. "Cum inside me. Fill me up."

Some distant part of her knew this was dangerous. No protection. Wrong time of the month. Richard would know. Everyone would know.

She didn't care. She wanted it. Wanted to be marked, claimed, ruined.

"Do it," she hissed. "Make me yours."

Kyle slammed into her one last time and came with a groan that seemed to shake the walls.

Sarah felt the hot pulse of him inside her—felt something shift in her core—and the boots burned against her thighs, the heat unbearable for one blinding second. She came screaming, her whole body convulsing, pleasure and pain and transformation all tangled together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the others began.

And then it stopped.

The heat settled into her bones. Deep. Permanent. Irreversible.

She wasn't becoming someone new anymore.

She just was.

Sarah rolled onto her back, laughing breathlessly up at the ceiling, Kyle's cum leaking from between her thighs.

"Happy New Year to me."

---

She found Richard in the kitchen, nursing a whiskey and looking like a lost child.

"Sarah! Where have you been? I've been looking everywhere—"

"Have you?" She smiled at him—a slow, mean smile that didn't reach her pale eyes. "I've been upstairs. With Kyle."

The colour drained from his face. "What?"

"You heard me." She stalked toward him, backing him against the counter, her heels clicking on the marble. "I fucked him, Richard. In David's guest room. He came inside me—" she pressed a hand to her belly, sharp nails splayed across the fabric of her dress, "—and honestly? It was the best sex of my life."

"You're joking." His voice cracked. "This has to be some kind of sick joke—"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

She reached under her dress, between her thighs, and brought her fingers back glistening with Kyle's cum. Richard stared at them, horrified, transfixed.

"He's bigger than you," Sarah said conversationally. "Thicker. Knows how to use it, too." She examined her wet fingers, then looked at her husband with cold amusement. "I wonder if you can taste the difference."

"Sarah, please—"

"Open your mouth."

"No. No, I won't—"

"Open. Your. Mouth."

Her voice cracked like a whip. Richard flinched—and then, slowly, shamefully, his jaw dropped open.

Sarah slid her fingers past his lips.

"That's it. Suck them clean." She watched him obey, watched the tears gathering in his eyes, and felt nothing but dark, delicious satisfaction. "You know what I was thinking, while Kyle was fucking me? I was thinking about how much time I've wasted. Years, Richard. Years of being your supportive little wife. Your cheerleader. Your doormat." She pulled her fingers free with a wet sound. "That's over now."

"What happened to you?" His voice was barely a whisper, broken. "What happened to my Sarah?"

She glanced down at her boots—gleaming, perfect, warm against her thighs—and smiled.

"She woke up." She patted his cheek with her damp hand, leaving a smear. "Now pull yourself together. I want to go home. I'm already bored with this party."

She turned and walked away, hips swaying, leaving her broken husband behind.

---

Later, at home, Sarah sat on the edge of their bed and reached for the zipper of her right boot.

For a moment—just a moment—something flickered through her. A memory of who she'd been before. The kind, mousy wife who would have been horrified by everything she'd done tonight. The woman who loved Richard. The woman who would never have dreamed of—

The zipper slid down with a soft zzzzip.

She pulled the boot off and waited.

Nothing.

She looked down at her legs—still long, still perfect—and then at her hands, her sharp red nails gleaming under the bedroom light. She touched her face, felt the high cheekbones, the plump lips, ran her fingers through her glossy black hair.

Still her. Still this her.

The transformation had stuck.

A slow smile spread across Sarah's face as she pulled off the second boot. The leather was cool now, dormant, the magic spent. Or rather—transferred. She was the magic now. The boots had just been the catalyst.

She held them up, admiring the gleaming black patent leather, and thought about the boutique where she'd found them. That strange little shop with no name, tucked between a dry cleaner and an empty storefront. The woman behind the counter with knowing eyes who'd smiled when Sarah picked them up.

"These will change your life," she'd said.

She hadn't been wrong.

Sarah set the boots aside carefully, almost reverently. Tomorrow, she'd take them back. Leave them somewhere they could be found—maybe that same boutique, maybe somewhere new. Let them call to another woman. Another bored, invisible, good woman who didn't know yet what she was capable of becoming.

The thought of it—some sweet housewife or mousy office girl zipping up those boots and feeling the change begin—made her smile widen.

She padded to the bathroom, still in her dress, and looked at herself in the mirror one last time. Pale grey eyes. Raven hair. Mean, cock-sucking lips curved into a cruel smile. Tits straining against black fabric. Sharp red nails tapping against the counter.

Richard was downstairs somewhere, probably crying. Probably trying to figure out what to do. Poor thing. He had no idea that this was just the beginning.

Kyle had already texted her twice. David Ashworth had slipped her his number. Three partners' wives had looked at her with naked envy, and their husbands had looked at her with naked want, and all of it had felt like oxygen after years of drowning.

2026.

A whole year stretching ahead of her, ripe with possibility. Men to fuck. Women to humiliate. Power to take. She was going to burn through Richard's entire social circle and enjoy every second of it.

And somewhere out there, another woman would find those boots. Would feel the zipper sing against her skin. Would become something wicked and wonderful and free.

Sarah blew a kiss at her reflection.

"2026 is going to be my year," she murmured. "And I'm just getting started."