For Love Or Money

Chapter 1, Stolen Moments.

One of the benefits being married to a young, female attorney making $165,000 a year at the moment with a far higher top end is you live well. You've got a nice house. New vehicles. Ethan Allen furniture. A basement entertainment room devoted to your favorite team. You generally have fine things and a comfortable life whether you decide to work – as I do – or not.

There are, as with most good things, some negatives.

Sexually, a wife hoping to become a mother, generally views some of the activities once enjoyed as inappropriate. She no longer feels the need to be that girl. A wife and mother shouldn't have to do THAT anymore. Couple that natural relationship and life progression with being an attorney at a major law firm, and you'll discover an even more prim and proper spouse than you may ever have envisioned.

Surprisingly, this is less a problem than you might believe when you have such a comfortable life. Sex, is, somehow, less critical than it was when you were poor and eating Wonderbread with Pizza Quick sauce warmed in a toaster oven. The biggest drawback, I've determined, to the comfortable life I'm situated in, is dinner parties. That's really the biggest drawback.

As a powerful little lawyer, it is the expectation you will entertain your colleagues from time to time, and be entertained in return. As the spouse of that powerful little lawyer, you are required to feign some enjoyment if no actual enjoyment is possible. The problem is I don't polish up so nice. I don't entertain. Or, better stated, I'm forced to entertain, and I do entertain very well. I just don't like it.

Though I'm something of an introvert at heart, I put on a jovial exterior that generally causes greater "dinner party" issues. People WANT to come back or have us over in return. "Bill" – that's me – is so funny. One law firm my wife left still invites us to all firm events because we just have to have "Bill" around.

I've come to dread the words, "Keep Saturday open. We've having people over."

I moan about it. I claim I need "me" time. But, when Saturday comes, I'm the clown again, and everyone has such a great time. This drawback seems to have no end. There are HUNDREDS of lawyers at my wife's firm. I try to make limits that the attorneys we have over must live close (as I don't want to drive 40 miles to go somewhere I don't want to be when the couple invites us to return the favor) or they must be in the same department or floor so I'm not entertaining some corporate attorney for no good networking reason.

Yet, being married to the primary bread winner usually quickly erases those lines. So, I continue to have dinner parties and hate that I have them, but, at least I understand them. It's networking. It'll benefit her and us in the long run. That's always been my rationale for gritting my way through these nights.

Then approximately six months ago a clear line was crossed. We had a dinner party, though not with anyone at her firm. The party was with a friend she developed at an upscale woman's retail store she shops at. One of the sales girls there and her boyfriend were coming over. I was displeased, determined to be less amusing during the dinner and much gruffer.

I hate these things anyway, but I can take them when they matter. I REALLY can't stand these things when they are with a cashier at Ann Taylor, providing no real benefit to either of us while also intruding on my pet peeve that she shops too much and driving home the fact that she shops SO much as to make FRIENDS with store employees.

I had no idea just how enjoyable this night would become and where it would lead for my wife and me. This night ultimately lead to an erasure -- over the course of a few weeks -- any negatives I could find in her shopping, dinner parties, or our sex life.

This chapter of the story speaks of the events of that first night.

My determination to be a jerk softened into a determination to be something a little less fun than normal as soon as I greeted our guests as the door.

"Oh my," was the first thought to cross my mind as I shook Heather's hand in greeting.

Heather had a lean, athletic build, slender, though not skinny. Her body on display despite a conservative outfit of tan, (I'm sure women have a more exotic color name for tan, but for me it was tan) form-fitting Ann Taylor slacks with an equally form-fitting black turtleneck. Heather had a form that assured others enjoyed the fit.

I felt a spasm of arousal in my groin as the scent of her perfume hit me. Jessica McClintock. The same perfume I buy for my wife and have her wear all the time. This coincidence becomes less coincidental as this story evolves. But, let's say, it was neither the lovely, lean body of Heather's 5-9 frame nor the sweet scent of that perfume that immediately made an impression on me.

It was the hair.

Long, full dirty blonde hair down to the middle of her back teased exquisitely to mix well the appearance that she didn't have time to do her hair up, while leaving no doubt by the body and kink, not curl as I hate curl, that the presentation took a very good perm and some time to perfect. That hair hid any potential flaws I might have found in her otherwise.

Not that I could find any true flaws. Her nose was a hint too sharply angled for my tastes perhaps, but, the package created was scary pretty. Heather was the kind of girl to drive men to distraction in the form of many fitful dreams.

The second thought that crossed my mind was, "I'd fuck the shit out of her." An appraisal of women men offer silently to themselves many times a day, rarely to have actually come true.

The second impression that was made that night, and third thought to come to my mind was, "Dude, you are out of your league." Shaking Tom's hand in introduction, I couldn't really process how he was dating her. She was 22 and finishing up college while working at the store. He was a business professional, four years older.

Tom was about 5-5. He had glasses and was extremely pale. His hair was cut in the style of Alphalpha from the Little Rascals, though, fortunately for him, without the hair sticking up in the back. She worked, so, it couldn't be that he had a lot of money. I simply filed away the odd relationship of a geeky, awkward guy with a super hot girl as being he must be hung like a horse, and Heather seemed to me to be a girl who required that attribute to be kept happy.

I found later this evening that was partially true. Heather did enjoy that trait. It was another attribute, though, which ultimately defined itself as her primary need, one that doesn't really become clear to me until a few days later. I didn't know it at this moment but poor Tom possessed neither trait.

Dinner went, largely uneventfully, save my determination to be a little less fun than normal was replaced by a determination to give Heather fitful dreams about me. A determination to be my most charming, intelligent, witty and engaging. I had more fun during that meal trying to impress a girl I had no shot at than I'd ever had at any dinner engagement before.

At 34, if I were single, I might have a shot at Heather, I thought. She was maybe a hair out of my league (ok, perhaps more than a hair), but, so was my wife, just in a different way. The rest of the package could have gotten her, I knew. Or, I assured myself, as there was no way of knowing. No extra long looks at one another during the meal. Nothing at the table even rose my wife's hackles as me flirting.

Later my wife told me, "I thought you were just being you, only better than normal."

She was right on that. I was. And though it turns out Heather was in my league, it had nothing, really, to do with my charm. Stick with me. We're getting to that.

After dinner we moved downstairs where I have a splendid bar setup and my wife has an immense walk-in closet she and her female guests often get lost at such times. I mixed a couple of drinks and handed them off to the closet-bound girls. Heather and Tom were going on a cruise in a couple of weeks and she wanted to borrow some nice clothes that might fit her.

I made a scotch for myself and a gin and tonic for Tom and we chatted. Political, sports, current events. Essentially clock watching, but, dutifully interested in each other's words. We got to appraise various party dresses as Heather came out with my wife. Each appraisal was affirmative in the extreme.

The small surges or arousal there most of the night when thinking of Heather, there in greater amounts when she was on display for us, though, not because the dresses were sexy so much as I kept thinking how nice it would be to undress her from one. That thought actually came out on the third dress when I said, "Look, who are we kidding. Tom's not going to want you in any of those dresses very long."

He laughed in agreement. My wife gave a playful, "Oh, Bill, you hush." Heather just looked at me and winked, laughing as she and my wife disappeared again. The wink was, at least to me, a clear, "I bet you'd like me out of these dresses too." I liked thinking that.

Then events of this night began to unfold a bit more rapidly than this story may suggest to this point.

Tom was dying for a smoke and went out back as we do not allow smoking in the house despite the fact I'm a cigar smoker. Such is the iron rule of my wife.

My wife headed upstairs to grab a few outfits she still had in the car and the upstairs closet for Heather to look at.

I went to the rest room, which is connected to the main guest room, which, itself, connects to the main closet.

Heather was in the main closet. The door connecting the bathroom was shut as was the door leading out to the main bar area.

I had my left hand against the wall and my right hand on my cock, heavy spray directed into the toilet. I never heard the connecting door to the rest room open. I never felt the presence of another person.

It was the Jessica McClintock I noticed. Before turning my head I said, "Sweetie, I'm in here." Assuming it was my wife.

"I don't think I'm already your sweetie."

I clenched at the sound a voice that was not my wife's. Stream cut off. Turning my head quickly, stunned to see Heather standing there, still in the black, off the shoulders dress she'd just tried on.

Though I'm an introvert at heart, I'm rarely caught at a loss for words. Here, none came. I watched her eyes flicker down to my cock and her smile broaden. In that moment I knew her boyfriend was not hung like a horse.

"You really should finish," she said, reminding me I'd cut off before finishing. But, the sudden change in the moment and emerging arousal finished things for me. I wasn't clenching now and didn't need to finish. I was showing signs through a growing erection of needing something else.

She walked a couple of steps closer. "Or have you finished already?" Her face was bright. Amused. Playful. Full of confidence. If she were a man, I'd call it swagger. The smell of her perfume grew as she approached. The fear in my body pulsing. Knowing my wife was upstairs and Tom was outside and not knowing how long that situation might persist.

I stepped back, shying from the situation. Pushing myself against the wall my hand was resting on moments before, but I had no where else to go and she was coming forward. Still smiling. Almost taunting me with the certain knowledge that I wanted her. Knowledge fueled by a rapidly growing cock.

Obviously, she wanted me as well, though, again, not quite for the reasons I had allowed myself to believe. My immense charm.

I still hadn't managed to speak. I felt my breathing intensify. Her final step to get within an arm's length of me, accompanied by her right hand reaching out, low, sliding under my cock and gently gliding down toward my zipper in a soft caress. Her fingers lightly curled around the sides of my shaft, holding me gently as my cock jumped at the touch of her fingers actually pulling free from her hand.

"Oh, I'm going to have to tame that," she cooed in a whisper. Even at 5'9" she had to look up into my face as I was still seven inches taller than she was. Her hand finding my cock again and gently gliding up and down the upright shaft, making soft, subtle moans as her fingers took measure of my cock.

"Oh, God, I'm going to love taming that," she whimpered, her hand still gliding softly up and down the length of my shaft. It was only now that I worked up the courage to speak. But, nothing flip, or confident, or certain came to mind.

My first words were a stammering, fearful, uncertain, "Wh..what are you doing?" She was as amused by the question as I was embarrassed by it. What she was doing was obvious. Why she was doing it wasn't quite so, and though that question was ultimately quite key to this and coming nights, weeks and months, it was not a question I was processing.

At that moment, I allowed that my determination to dazzle her had worked. Pure arrogance in my own inflated view of my abilities, though, at this moment, there was no doubt in my mind my external skills had won her over, and her hand was on my strongest hidden trait.

The way Heather's hand moved along my cock, stretching her fingers around it, sliding down the length of it seemed to be done to appraise it. The way she looked up at me, tucking her lower lip under her upper teeth told me she was very happy at the appraisal. It was then I knew in my own mind something I would find out later this night and with some regularity thereafter.

She liked a thicker, fatter, longer cock. And in this desire, I was well within her league and perhaps the greatest player her league had ever seen. Whether flattery or calculation for something else, Heather routinely heaped praise on this aspect of our relationship. And, each time she did, I believed it, whether it was faint praise or not. That, too, is for later chapters.

Even as I felt good about what was happening and certain now that she felt my cock, she'd have to have it, my confidence was blunted by the reality of the situation. Tom was outside smoking. It doesn't take THAT long to smoke a cigarette. My wife was gathering a bundle of clothes. What if she was already downstairs looking for Heather?

"You've got to stop. We could get caught," I pleaded with as much conviction as a frightened voice could muster.

This just served to encourage her. "You want to get caught." Her motions on my cock increased. The hand job adding a small twist as her hand slid up and down through the middle of my shaft. My fear increasing when she slowed again, saying, "But don't worry. I don't want to get caught. We'll hear when they come back."

Her smile fading into a small parting of her lips as her faced rose to mine. Her lips pushing into mine. Her hand working my shaft again. I could feel her tongue seek mine out. Swirling into my mouth and circling my tongue as I kissed back. My mind thinking through what she'd said.

We'd hear. Of course we'd hear. The back door is alarmed. It will beep when Tom comes back in. We'll hear my wife come down the stairs. The doors are shut. As long as she gets back into the guest room, we're set. More confidently, I reached around Heather, placing my right hand against the small of her back.

Now, her tongue was coupled with a warm exhale of breath in my mouth, as she moaned lightly, knowing I was responding to her. The kiss was deep and connected. Neither of us willing to pull back and come up for air. I was no longer backed against the wall. I'd stepped into her, feeling her hand work between us. Slight twists on my shaft now full semi-circular in nature. I could feel pre-cum dripping down the tip of my cock head.

I could feel her thumb finding the tip, rolling the pre-cum over the sensitive flesh.

Ding-ding-ding.

With a start I pulled my head back from the kiss. The back door had just opened. What seemed like hours had really only been a handful of minutes to this point. Tom was coming back in. Now was the time for us to end.

"Fuck," I said into her upturned face. Not looking at her, but looking at the bathroom door as if I feared Tom would walk directly there and walk in. It was another couple of seconds before I realized she hadn't stopped jerking my cock, instead, increasing pace.

I looked down into her eyes now and saw no fear. I saw no easing back. "Stop," I mouthed without sound. She just shook her head and looked at me with those bright, amused eyes. Behind the amusement, now was another emotion, I hadn't noticed or didn't exist before now.

Thrill. The sound of Tom entering the back door inspired her. Heather loved the thrill of the danger of being caught. I never liked it as much, no matter how regularly it was a part of our pattern together.

I felt her body position change. Her hand still jerking, but she began to slide down., looking up at me with delight and eagerness as she moved her body to her knees. Her opposite hand sliding down along my stomach as she dropped.

"Stop. Tom's in there." The faintest whisper I could muster. I was more willing her to stop than voicing it. Willing her not to push the situation further. The clear thrill she was feeling was utter dread in me. My life was comfortable. I could see it becoming far less comfortable after getting caught like this.

But her body only stopped when her knees hit the floor. That smile, both daring me to stop her, and confirming she knew I could not. She shook her head again while moving her face closer to my cock. Eyes fixed upward, watching my face. I felt her breath against my cock head as she whispered quietly, "Not until you finish."

And then I watched, feeling as if I was going to explode, as her had moved forward. Her hand pulling my cock straight, toward her mouth. Her lips parted, opening wide enough to cover my cock head, without touching it. She just held me, watching me, my cock head inside her lips, teasing me with how close true pleasure was. Warm breath from her mouth now flowing half way down my shaft as she purposely exhaled through her mouth. Those revealing eyes never leaving my face.

I felt my knees buckle a little as her lips, after hovering around me without touching for a second, closed softly, wrapping the ridges of my cock head. Her tongue finding the tip, tasting my pre-cum, swishing around the tip, causing more to be released for her to savor. Then her mouth slid slowly forward, swallowing in more of my length.

I had to grip the towel rack to keep myself steady. My head focused downward, watching her, now determined never to forget just how sweet an image there was below me. And, believe me, this was an image worth remembering.

My wife could have entered the room right now and screamed, and I would not have been able to stop what was happening.

I just watched as Heather took me in and eased back out. Her eyes refusing to leave mine. My cock, thick, rigid in her mouth. I could see her eyes watering ever slightly, but not from worry, or sadness, rather, from exertion. I could feel her jaw trembling a bit at opening wide enough to accommodate as much of me as possible.

Her cheeks, shallow, stretched.

A surge of pleasure and even pride swelled in me. She'd either NEVER had a cock my size in her mouth, or she was a fantastic actress. As I mentioned earlier, I never doubted her true love of my cock, so, here, at least, she wasn't acting.

Her tongue covering the lower vein of my shaft, bathing it, curling under it, guiding me further. Each time she eased back, she let her lips drag along my head, showing me the glistening wetness of her saliva in the light of the bathroom, before sliding back down as far as she could. As many inches as she could take in a skill she'd develop in the coming months, including one tremendous, focused session. But, tonight, a little less than half of my cock could fit.