My Wife, The Escort 1 & 2 (My Wife, The Escort Season 1)

by Victoria Kasari

  Harriet was panting, now. She shrugged out of the dress’s straps and, suddenly, her bra was exposed. I groaned at the sight of those pale breasts in their gauzy black bra, the nipples just visible through the smoky fabric. I reached up with both hands and cupped them, squeezing lightly, feeling the delicious weight of them. God, her nipples were already hard, standing out through the material.

  We rolled again, moving faster, now, so that she was on her back. She wriggled and pushed and I pulled and together we got the dress up over her head and off. I tossed it into the corner of the room and stared down at the woman beneath me.

  She was still in her shining black heels and they made her already long legs look even longer and sexier. The dark stockings she wore shaped and defined every inch of her calves and thighs. The stockings finished in thick, dark bands mid way up her thighs and her pale skin was soft and unblemished above them. I knew she was super-sensitive there, the skin incredibly smooth. I was already imagining stroking her there with my thumbs. I was already imagining all the things I was going to do to her.

  Between her thighs, a pair of black briefs hid her most secret treasures. Hid them almost...but not quite. They were made of the same material as the bra, with a gauzy panel at the front, and I could see the faint outline of her labial lips and the soft curls of blonde hair around them. She shaved, but always kept just a little hair around her lips, the delicate color the perfect complement to her white skin and pale pink lips. I was dying to see her, but the hints I could see only heightened the anticipation. I could see something else, too. The fabric was sticking to her lips where it stretched over them. She’d soaked straight through the thin material.

  My eyes tracked upward, up over her soft, feminine stomach and up to the swell of her breasts, full and succulent, the dark lines of her bra straps stark and erotic against her creamy flesh. The tease of that gauzy fabric again, on her bra cups, showing just a hint of her pink nipples. It was almost more of a turn on than seeing her naked...although I couldn’t wait for that, too.

  I ran my palms reverently up the outside of her stockinged thighs, feeling the rasp of the nylon. When I reached her bare upper thighs, she gasped, her eyes locked on mine. When I reached the waistband of her panties, I couldn’t resist any longer. I grabbed it and yanked them down. Harriet lifted her hips off the bed to allow them to slide down her legs and then bent at the knees so I could hook them over her feet and away. Now she was bare below the waist. We stared at each other. Neither of us had ever felt anything like this before. Her eyes were huge and liquid, her breath coming in quick little pants.

  I watched as she slowly stepped her feet apart, knees still bent. The pale pink lips of her pussy were presented to me, delicately parting as her thighs went wider. I could see the soft flesh gleaming in the room’s low lights. God, she was wet. Soaking.

  Nothing in the world had ever looked more inviting.

  With a moan, I flung myself forward between her thighs, grabbing for my belt buckle. Harriet was on the pill so we didn’t have to worry about condoms. A good thing, because I honestly don’t think I would have been able to wait. I was hornier than I’d ever been in my life. I’d been hoping we’d have sex; I just hadn’t planned on it being anything like this.

  I was already fully hard and straining. My eyes were locked on those soft curls of blonde hair and the pouting pink lips between them.

  “Are you going to fuck me?” asked Harriet suddenly in a strange, high tone.

  “Yes!”

  “You’re going to fuck me for money, aren’t you?” she gasped.

  “Yes!” And then I was plunging into her, groaning as her tightness surrounded me. I drove straight up into her, deeper than I normally would on a first thrust. God, she was so wet! I grabbed her waist and moved in closer between her thighs, hearing her moan beneath me as I shifted inside her. Then I was pulling back a little...and thrusting forward again, filling her. Her back arched in pleasure, her chin tilting up to the ceiling. I hung onto her hips, pulled back again, delighting at the satiny feel of her, and then pushed even deeper. She gave a delighted little moan, shimmying her hips under my hands and twisting around me in response.

  We lay like that for a second with my cock completely buried inside her. Then I began to thrust. I lowered myself onto my forearms, my face close to hers, my ass rising and falling as I pumped into her. Every stroke was a tight, silky perfection, and she was writhing and arching under me, thrusting her breasts up to meet my chest. I could feel her nipples rock-hard through the thin material of her bra. She moaned as they stroked along my body.

  I fucked her long and hard and, with each passing minute, my thrusts grew faster and she writhed and bucked more desperately under me. God, my wife was lying there naked and willing on a bed, spread for some guy just because he had money. She was my wife and she was fucking him, fucking one of her clients, for money, opening those legs to some stranger so he could—

  God. My wife was an escort. A whore.

  I rammed into her, unable to hold back any longer. At the same time, I felt her tighten and spasm around me, squeezing me. Milking me. Her cries rose to the ceiling, loud enough to be heard in the next room. I groaned and cursed and exploded inside her, jetting long streams of cum into her. God, I’m coming inside her. SOME GUY IS COMING INSIDE HER, COMING INSIDE MY WIFE—

  It was the best orgasm I’d ever experienced, a long, hot roll of pleasure that went all the way down my spine and out through my cock. By the end of it, I was utterly spent. I collapsed on top of Harriet like a limp ragdoll. And, beneath me, she was in the same state.

  The next morning, we checked out. Everything went back to normal. It was a weekend, so we did what we normally did—worked extra hours to try to get our finances back on track, checked our email, watched a little TV and worried about the debt. Normal.

  Except, every time we saw each other, we’d give each other secret little smiles and giggle and sometimes grab hold of one another. We touched more, that day, than we had in weeks.

  The stories she’d told me about her ex, and the thought of her with her other exes, had been exciting enough. But this new fantasy, the idea of her being an escort...that was on a whole other level. Analyzing it later—and I analyzed it a lot—I realized that I hadn’t been just thinking about fucking her, when I’d fucked her. I hadn’t just been her client, fucking an escort; I’d been her husband, fucking a wife who was an escort.

  It was my fantasy of her having sex with other guys, only a thousand times better. There was the added kinky twist of her doing it for money and, somehow, in the fantasy, I could actually watch her having sex with other guys.

  It was definitely the best thing that had happened to our sex life in years. And the best part was, Harriet was obviously into it. I didn’t need to feel guilty about it, like the time she’d caught me watching porn on my laptop. This was something she actually got off on.

  I started to think about ways we could do it again.

  As the sun went down that night, I noticed Harriet standing by the windows that look out over our yard, watching the sunset. And yet it looked like she wasn’t really watching it—her eyes were unfocused, as if she was looking inward. She looked tense, so I kept wanting to go over and check she was alright, but it felt like it was a private moment. She stayed there long after the sun had disappeared. Then she suddenly announced she was going to take a shower and disappeared into the bathroom for a good half hour.

  I thought she’d be relaxed when she finally emerged but, weirdly, she was even tenser than before. She stayed in her bathrobe which was okay by me—she looked amazing in it, all glimpses of damp, pale skin and the mounds of her breasts pushing out the soft toweling.

  Throughout dinner, she was antsy and distracted, pushing her food around the plate. I lit some candles and even opened a bottle of wine, in the hope that would calm her down. We normally didn’t drink much—the champagne the night before had been a rare exception—but she knocked back a glass almost i
n one gulp.

  At last, when we were on our second glass, she said in a rush, “I’ve been thinking about what happened last night.”

  I nodded slowly. This was good. I wanted to talk about it. But she looked worried—was she embarrassed by how into it she’d been?

  “I think we should go back to that hotel...and do it.”

  I sighed with relief and relaxed. Was that all? I leaned forward. “I’ve been thinking the same thing!” I reached out and gently stroked her cheek with my fingers. “It was incredible! I think we could go back to the same place and this time I can actually approach you at the bar and act like a client. We could agree on a price, and then I can take you up to our room—which’ll be my room, of course—and we can pretend like we don’t even know each other and it’ll be awesome!”

  She nodded. Sipped some wine. Swallowed. “No,” she said at last. She put her palms flat on the table, sliding them across the table towards me. “That’s not what I mean.”

  I frowned.

  She took a deep breath. “What if I actually did it?”

  I just stared at her, confused.

  “What if I actually was an escort?”

  I blinked and I think I probably gave a stupid smile. The idea wouldn’t go into my brain. “You mean….”

  “I mean actually sleep with another guy for money.”

  I closed my eyes for a second as the concept washed through me, leaving me breathless. I shook my head in disbelief. “Wh—What?!” I opened my eyes and stared at her.

  She wasn’t kidding.

  “You can’t—I mean, you can’t….” I trailed off. My first reaction had been complete disbelief. But now, as the idea started to really register in my brain, there were two more responses. The first was panic—fear and almost nausea at the idea. The caveman reaction: my woman. Mine! But, almost at the same time, there was excitement. I thought of her actually doing it, actually going up in the elevator with some guy and letting him fuck her and—

  And I got hard. Instantly, like a switch had been thrown. I could feel my cock rising and stiffening against my thigh.

  “No!” I said loudly, pushing myself back from the table as if stung. “No! God, no!”

  She nodded and flushed.

  I stared at her for a few seconds. Then, “Do you want to?”

  “Do you want me to?” she asked immediately.

  I held up my hand. “No. Wait. Don’t do that. Don’t turn it back on me. That’s not fair. Do you want to?”

  She dropped her eyes, not looking at me.

  “God,” I said, hardly realizing I was saying it aloud. “You do want to. You actually want to.”

  She picked up her wine and sipped. Then she said, without looking at me, “I want to if you want me to.”

  “Stop evading it. Do you or don’t you?”

  She took another sip. Then she looked up at me almost through her hair, half-hiding behind it. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “Yes, I want to.”

  My jaw dropped open. “Why?” I asked at last. “I mean, is it...because it’s someone new? A...change? Are you bored with me?”

  “No!” She shook her hair back and grabbed my hand. “No, God no! I just…” She bit her lip. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since that guy approached me in the bar. I think I’d like it. The sex, I mean. With him being a stranger and….the money.”

  When I spoke, my voice was thick and heavy. “You get off on that, don’t you? The idea of him paying you.”

  She nodded. Then she looked me right in the eye. “And so do you.”

  She was being honest with me. I owed her the same. I nodded.

  “This would solve all our money problems,” she said softly. “A thousand dollars a time.”

  “Is this about the money?” I asked. “Because if it’s about the money, if you’re thinking you have to do this because we need the money then—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I mean, it’s all the same thing. I…”—she squirmed in her seat—“I want to do it. And also there’s the money. And the fact there’s money involved is part of the reason I want to do it, because…because it turns me on. And also, because I’d sort of be doing it for the money….” she squirmed again.

  I caught on. “...it’s kind of an excuse? Like, you don’t have to feel guilty that you’re enjoying it?”

  She nodded, her cheeks red.

  “Jesus, Harriet. That’s twisted.”

  “What about you?” she asked. “How do you feel?”

  Now it was my turn to sip some wine to buy time. How did I feel? Everything was happening too fast. My head was spinning. “I….” I thought about it. “It turns me on,” I said. The realization that it did was like a bomb going off in my head. “I like the idea of you having sex with other guys.” I said it very slowly, testing each word as it came. I couldn’t argue with how I felt. “And the idea that they can...buy you. That they can have a piece of my wife, for money…”—I shifted in my seat, then shook my head in amazement at my own thoughts—“that’s even hotter.”

  We fell silent, staring at each other.

  “Okay, wait,” I said suddenly. “I mean, wait...this is just a game, right? I mean, we’re not really being seriously serious, right? We’re just playing around. We aren’t really talking about you doing this, right?” I don’t think I believed what I was saying. I’d heard her tone and knew she was serious. I think I just wanted to give both of us an out, if we needed one.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s not a game. I’m serious if you are.”

  The room was so silent I could hear the flare of the candle flame as it caught in a draft.

  “You couldn’t,” I said. “Not really.”

  “Go on,” she said in a shaky voice. “Reasons.”

  I think she actually wanted me to come up with something, something she couldn’t argue with. Because the idea was just too good, too tempting, for either of us to ignore. We needed that barrier to make us pull up short, to avoid us doing the unthinkable. Because it was unthinkable, right?

  “Safety,” I said. “Jesus, Harriet, you’re talking about being a prostitute. Sex with a complete stranger. He could be a fucking loon. He could knife you or rape you or slit your throat.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not like I’d be working on the streets and having sex in dark alleys. I’d be in a hotel room in a luxury hotel.”

  “You’d still be alone with a stranger.”

  “How is that any different to having a one-night stand with some guy I met in a club? Millions of women do that every night.”

  “But then you’d get to know the guy. You’d at least know his name. People see he’s with you. If anything happened, he’d be traceable and he’d know it.”

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t stop lots of women from getting attacked. And the guys in that hotel we went to were all guests. That means they’ve had to show a credit card to the hotel—their details are on file. They’re a hell of a lot more traceable than some guy who you meet in a bar and you only know as ‘Brad.’”

  “But these guys...use prostitutes. They’re...seedy. Weird. They probably want weird stuff.”

  “Didn’t you see those guys at the bar? They earn a hell of a lot more than we do. They’re professional guys with no time for a girlfriend. They just want to fuck a hot woman and move on.”

  I sat back in my seat and stared at her. “What about diseases?”

  “Condoms.”

  “What if someone found out? Jesus, Harriet, you’d be an escort! What if our friends found out?”

  “How would they? We could go to a hotel in LA, one of those big corporate places where it’s all businessmen. Somewhere far enough away that our friends wouldn’t go there for a drink or a night away, like we did, but close enough so that no one we know would bother to stay over on business. And even if they did happen to walk in and see me—so what? I’m just sitting at the bar having a drink. I’d just say I’d had a seminar in the hotel and h
ung around with some girls from work afterwards, and that I was just heading home. And I’ll tell the guy a false name, of course. No escort uses her real name anyway.”

  “What name?” I asked.

  “Kimberly.” She swallowed. “What do you think?”

  I nodded slowly. Kimberly. Kimberly, the high-class escort. My wife. God....

  I was having to wrack my brains now to come up with something. “What about the law?”

  “It’s not illegal as long as you’re not soliciting. If some guy comes up to you and offers money, you’re not breaking the law. And if he does it and he’s a cop, that’s entrapment.”

  I shook my head softly. “How do you know that?!”

  She flushed. “I looked it up.”

  I stared at her for a long time, sipping my wine. It felt as if my mind was sliding inexorably down a slippery track towards saying yes to this. Every few inches, the sensible part of my brain would grab hold of it and yank it back, saying are you out of your fucking mind?! But, each time my mind slipped forward, it would gain a little ground and the track was sloping downward more and more steeply. I knew what was pushing me forward: my own desperate lust. The idea of her actually doing this horrified me...and turned me on like nothing I’d ever known. God, what if she actually did this? What if she ACTUALLY did it and told me afterwards about the guy she’d fucked?

  Could I really do that? Could I really sit downstairs in the bar, waiting, praying she was okay? Was the kick I’d get out of it really worth the risk? Because I knew I’d only be kidding myself if I claimed this was about the money. The money was a bonus. This was about the sex, for both of us.