As I pressed the accelerator pedal of the Range Rover, pushing it far beyond the legal speed limit, I watched in the rear view mirror as the prostitute squirmed and giggled in my husband's lap; his penis thickening and pressing against her buttocks through the fabric of her tight leopard print dress. I watched as he pulled her dress up around her hips, pushing her fake tanned thighs apart and peeling aside her flimsy underwear; revealing her vulva and thin landing strip of pubic hair. Both their eyes met mine in the mirror as with thumb and forefinger my husband penetrated both her vagina and anus simultaneously; she moaned the fake moans of pleasure I had moaned so many times myself.
Our marriage, like the Range Rover, had become merely a vehicle in which to travel between increasingly depraved sex acts. My husband and I had long been unsatisfied by normal sexual relations. In the beginning my husband had become unable to orgasm without vivid descriptions of my extra material affairs, both real and imagined; a travelling sales executive sodomising me in his hotel room after a complimentary meal, my secretary administering cunnilingus to me under my desk whilst I idly fill spreadsheets of sales figures. Recently he could not achieve an erection without re-enacting increasingly extreme pornography; I would stamp on his penis whilst wearing expensive designer high heels or urinate on his chest and genitals. Either way, neither of us could climax until his firm grip around my slender throat had chocked me to the edge of consciousness.
Now there were encounters like this with escorts. The word escort in some way giving a middle class approval to paying for sex. My husband had chosen this prostitute specifically, after weeks of frequenting airport hotel bars searching for a suitable candidate. She look like a younger model of myself; slim but shapely with long tanned legs, her breasts a similar size to my own before the enhancement surgery. Her hair, however, was naturally blond. Perhaps my husband had fucked her before.
By now my husband had pulled down the front of her dress, reducing it to a wide fabric belt around her midriff. Her nipples were coated with his saliva before he inhaled a line of cocaine from her bare breast. She laughed as if this was the first time this had happened to her, or perhaps at us for indulging in such a clichéd display of depravity; no doubt this expensive whore had seen and endured far more surreal, depraved and demeaning sexual encounters than we could even imagine.
I negotiated a number of complex intersections through the darkness; cutting across the five lanes of the motorway to meet the entry ramp to another endless span of near deserted express-way. Cars blared their horns and flashed their headlights, illuminating the semi naked bodies contorted in the rear seats of the Range Rover.
