Desperate Measures

I walked – strutted, actually – into the plush lobby of the downtown Hilton, headed for the bar.

As I walked into the bar, I felt the eyes of every man on me, as well as some of the women. They saw a tall, slender redhead with long legs wearing a thin beige short-sleeved blouse, a tight khaki mini-skirt that stopped right about halfway down her legs, tan-colored hose and four-inch high heels.

I'm sure most of them were riveted to the sight of my breasts jiggling invitingly as I walked, unfettered by a bra, the nipples pushing into the silk material of my blouse. I smiled inwardly at the reaction, because there had been a time when I would have shied away from such attention.

I had the description of the man I was meeting, and he had my picture, so it didn't take long for him to wave me over to his booth. I sat down across from him, the waitress came over and I ordered a soda, while he ordered a Chivas on the rocks.

I looked across at the man, studying him quickly, as I had learned to do. He was a businessman from Detroit who was here for a trade show and he was looking for some action.

He was a nice-looking fellow, harmless, I decided. He was a little under six feet tall and slightly on the heavy side, with close-cropped brown hair that was beginning to thin in front.

I noticed there was no ring on his left hand, but there was an indentation on his ring finger, indicating that he'd probably removed a wedding band earlier.

I sighed as I realized that I was causing another husband to cheat on his wife, but then I looked at my own hand and saw the engagement and wedding rings that I still wore, and understood that I was no different.

We quickly got down to business.

"So how much are you worth?" said the man, whose name was Curtis.

"Five hundred for two hours, a thousand for four," I replied.

"That's a little steep," Curtis said. "You sure you're worth that much?"

"Honey, if you want cheap pussy, you go on down to Broad Street," I said in the sultriest tone I could muster, referring to the city's notorious red-light district. "You want the best piece of ass in this city, an experience you'll never forget, you'll pay me what I'm worth."

"I was told you didn't come cheap," Curtis said. "All right, let's go."

We finished our drinks, then walked arm-in-arm out of the bar. I nodded at the bartender, a fellow I'd known for some time, though not professionally. He looked out for me whenever I was in his bar, and if there was something about the man I was with that I should know about, he'd call me on my cell phone and give me a heads-up.

He simply smiled this time, so I figured I was OK, and Curtis and I took the elevator to his floor, walked to his room, then entered when he opened the door.

Curtis pulled his coat off, draped it over a chair, went to the safe in the closet, opened it up, rummaged around in there for several seconds, then stood up holding five hundred-dollar bills. He handed the bills to me; I folded them up, stuffed them in my purse and set it on the bedside table where I could get to it easily.

I pulled him to me and we kissed, hot and hard, then broke the embrace and I slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt, and as I did, I planted little kisses and licks on his chest as it was revealed to me.

When I had his shirt off, he stepped back and sat down on the nearby chair. It was obvious that this wasn't the first time he'd been in the company of a hooker, because he seemed quite calm and self-assured.

He pulled his shoes and socks off, then told me to strip for him. I smiled seductively and slowly unbuttoned my blouse.

When I had it open, I let the sides fall away and idly played with my stiff pink nipples. I ran my tongue languidly over my lips, which were still covered with the red lipstick I'd been wearing.

I slid my blouse off and carefully placed it on the dresser top, then reached back and unzipped my skirt. I did a slow shimmy to let the material fall to the floor then stepped out of it, bent over, picked it up and just as carefully set it on top of my blouse.

I stood in front of my customer clad only in my thong panties, thigh-high stockings and my heels. I looked down to see Curtis kneading his cock through his pants. He stood up then and filled his hands with my tits, softly caressing the flesh and lightly pinching the nipples.

As he stood there, I reached down and unbuckled his belt, undid his pants and let them fall to the floor, then he too stepped out of his pants and kicked them aside. As we kissed again, he felt my tits again, a little harder this time and I squeezed his cock.

"Suck me," he commanded, and I immediately pulled his jockey shorts away from his dick and let them fall. Curtis' cock was about average, not too big, not too small, just about perfect for sucking. I held it by the base as I squatted down and spread my legs.

I licked up his shaft lightly, and he groaned in lustful surrender. My lips were just barely brushing over the rigid pole in my hands, and I could see the big dollop of pre-cum that boiled out of the tip. With a light flick of my tongue, I swept up the ball of fluid, savoring the taste for just a second, then I went back for more.

I swirled my tongue around the head of his cock and slowly let his meat pass my lips. I slowly drew him into my mouth, until I had about half of him in me, then I pulled back slightly and began to work him with my lips.

I sucked ever deeper with each back-and-forth motion, until I had his entire length in my throat. I worked my lips at the base of his cock for just a second or two, long enough for him to groan heavily, then I pulled back and set to work again.

I looked up and we locked eyes, then he spoke again.

"Play with yourself, get that pussy nice and wet for me," he said in a slightly shaky voice.

I was already wet, from anticipation. Part of my allure was that I gave every bit as good as I got. When a man paid for me, they got a whore who made sure she got something out of it, a woman who acted as if he was the greatest lover in the world.

I pulled the gusset of my panties aside and Curtis whistled when he got his first look at my pink pussy and the tightly trimmed, flame-colored bush that surrounded it.

I slid one of my manicured fingers between the glistening folds and moaned around the meat in my mouth. I slipped two fingers into my juicy pie as I stroked his cock with my lips, feeling a nice climax beginning to come to a boil.

Abruptly, Curtis pulled my mouth off his cock. He picked me up gently and we walked to the king-sized bed. I reached in my purse, pulled out a condom, handed it to him, then pulled the covers down and lay on my back, looking up at him with a wordless invitation.

Curtis climbed on the bed, but instead of getting on top of me, he lay between my legs, pulled my panties off, tossed them aside and plunged his face into my cunt. I squealed, then laughed wantonly as he used his lips and tongue on me.

I writhed on the bed as he lashed my pussy with a very talented tongue and sucked on my clit with very active lips. I could feel my orgasm climbing, climbing, climbing ... but before it could peak, he pulled his face away and got up on his knees.

I groaned in frustration, but I wasn't frustrated long. Curtis slid the rubber on, worked the head of his cock between my labia several times to get his cock lubricated then pushed his length into me in one hard thrust.

I reached up, pulled him to me and howled as my climax exploded from the feeling of his cock entering me.

Curtis worked his cock hard and fast as he stared at me, and I wrapped my long legs around his waist and humped him for everything I was worth. I could tell he wasn't going to last very long, the way he was going at me, and frankly, I was ready to feel his cum.

I was about to hit a second climax, when he said something that threw cold water on my passion.

"I'll bet your husband doesn't fuck you like this," he said heatedly. "If he did, you wouldn't be turning tricks, now would you?"

I knew this was part of the fantasy he'd wanted to use, since he told me he got off on the thought of cuckolding husbands, but still it was a sobering reminder of why I was there. I tried to blink away the tears that filled my eyes, but Curtis wouldn't give up.

"Well, does he?" he said.

"No, God, no, he doesn't fuck me like you," I stammered, then closed my eyes and waited for him to finish, and he was right there.

With a loud grunt, he lurched forward one final time, then gasped as he shot a huge fountain of cum into the condom. I could tell it was a big load from the way his semen oozed around the base of his cock.

I clutched at him, as if I was coming with him, but it was an act. The thought of my husband, sitting at home in his wheelchair, or perhaps in the special bed that took up half of our den, had ruined the mood for me.

Once Curtis was finished coming, he rolled off of me, his sated cock slithering out of my pussy. He pulled off the rubber, tossed it in the trash and lay back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. Then he saw the look on my face, and I guess he took pity on me.

You see, my husband couldn't fuck me like Curtis did, or do anything else, for that matter. He was a quadriplegic, a shell of the strong, sexy man I'd married, and I was a whore who was doing what I had to do to keep him at home and keep him alive.

Curtis was apologetic when I told him about Brett, but by then I'd re-hardened my heart, the way I had three years earlier when I had made the agonizing decision to go from a faithful housewife to a brazen slut for money.

After a little time to rest and talk, we fucked again, this time a little more leisurely. Curtis got me on my knees and pushed his cock into me from behind and worked himself in a steady rhythm. I tried to get my lust re-ignited, but I was having trouble.

No problem. I'd learned how to fake an orgasm with the best of them, and I did just that, thrashing, moaning and clutching the sheets in a sweaty act of passion.

When Curtis grunted, filled a second condom with his cum and pulled his cock out, I did something wicked so he'd remember me with a lustful shiver.

I had him give me his semen-filled rubber, then I rolled onto my back, held the flaccid tube over my open mouth, squeezed it from the tip down and dribbled the fluid onto my tongue. Then, when the condom was empty, I swallowed every drop, smacking my lips with relish.

Curtis just stared at me with his eyes wide and his mouth open. I knew then that I had a regular, that he'd look me up again the next time he was here.

All part of the game, I thought grimly, all part of the act.

I looked over at the clock and saw that his two hours was about up. With a sigh, I got up off the bed, picked up my purse and went into the bathroom. I peed, then pulled out the small bottle of douche I'd brought along and cleaned myself thoroughly.

When I was reasonably fresh, I got up, went out and got dressed. Curtis stood watching impassively as I got ready to leave. When I turned toward the door, he walked over, gave me a deep kiss and pressed two more hundreds into my hand.

"A little tip for you," he said. "I'd like to see you again, maybe next year, and I promise I won't bring up your husband again."

"It's all right," I said. "Yeah, maybe next year. And if you have any friends in Detroit who are headed this way, tell them to give me a buzz. Tell them I'm the best fuck in the city."

With that, I walked out of the room and headed down to the parking garage. I climbed in my little two-door sedan, but didn't do anything right away.

I looked around to see if anyone was coming, and when I saw no one, I quickly slipped off my skirt and blouse, then pulled off the heels and stockings.

I reached in my little bag and pulled out a bra – black to match my panties – put it on, then took the pleated skirt and starched white blouse off the hanger in the back. I quickly pulled them on, tucked the blouse in the waist of my skirt, reached in the bag again, pulled out a little school tie and tied it quickly and loosely around my neck.

Satisfied that I was dressed appropriately, I pulled my curly, shoulder-length red hair into two tight pigtails, wrapped rubber bands around them, touched up my make-up, then turned the ignition and headed out of the garage.

I had an appointment in a half-hour at my next client's apartment. He was a regular, and he had a fetish for schoolgirls, hence the outfit.

I gave a deep sigh as I drove, thinking about the rest of the night's schedule. After this fellow, I had another appointment at another motel on the edge of town.

It was all in a night's work, but by the time I made it home around 3 o'clock in the morning, I would have $2,000 in my pocketbook, the wages of my sin that came about from necessity.

------

"... To have and to hold, in sickness and health, for better or worse, forsaking all others, until death do you part."

I took that vow when I married Brett Summers, but circumstances dictated that I couldn't keep it.

I was compelled to choose. I could abandon my husband at his worst moment, at the point where his very life was in jeopardy, and forsake all others; or I could stay with him, care for him, and have others - many others.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I made my choice. Most of you, I am sure, will condemn me for the choice I made. You'll call me a slut and a cheating whore, and you'd be right. I was a slut and a cheating whore.

Oh, by the strictest definition, I was a call girl rather than a streetwalker, but a whore by any other name is still a whore.

For four years, I took money for sex, and that's what a whore does. During that time, I did things that should have a made a "nice girl" like me blush in shame, but I don't.

I'm certainly not proud of what I did, but I'm not ashamed of it, either. I did what I had to do to put a roof over my family's head, food on our plates and, most importantly, provide for the care of my husband after he was crippled in a car crash.

I don't necessarily ask for your approval at what I did, but before you condemn me, you'd better walk a mile or two in my shoes.

Let's start at the beginning.

My name is Katherine, but everyone calls me Kate. I was born and raised in a small town. My father was a pharmacist who owned a drug store downtown, and my mom helped out part-time. I'm the youngest of four; I have a sister who is 10 years older than me, and my two brothers are seven and four years my senior, respectively.

I wouldn't say I was spoiled, but as the baby of the family, I had things a little easier than perhaps my siblings did. The flip side of that is that I had high standards that I was expected to meet, and I did.

My family was quite religious and had high moral standards that reflected what they saw as our place in the community. And I didn't have any problem with living up to those standards. I was a quiet kid who behaved herself and did what she was told.

I met Brett when we started our freshman year of high school. We just seemed to gravitate to each other. He was smart, especially in math, and our personalities were similar. Although our faiths were different, he was equally religious, and we had no problems remaining virgins.

I was not quite the student that Brett was, and I was tired of classrooms and teachers by the time I finished high school. I figured I'd give college a try after a few years, but that never happened, and that decision would hurt me later on.

Brett and I dated pretty exclusively in high school, but when he went off to college, while I stayed home and worked for my father, we dated a few other people.

I had been kind of gangly in high school, however, in my late teens, I filled out some and I had a pretty active social life. I kissed a few of the other boys I dated, but I never had sex with them. It was important for me to be a virgin on my wedding night, and I was.

By the time Brett reached his junior year of college, we both realized our feelings for each other were deep and enduring. We were married right after he graduated and he started in with a nationally known company. I was 21 and he was 22.

I honestly don't know whether Brett was a virgin when we married; I never asked and he never volunteered the information. I sort of doubt it, because he was awfully skilled when he bedded me on our wedding night.

Nevertheless, it was truly a magical night. Brett was patient and made sure my pleasure was of prime importance, and when he finally got his cock in me for the first time, after he broke my hymen, I exploded in a tremendous climax.

That set the stage for our sex life together. We weren't especially adventurous, but there was nothing I wouldn't do for him. He was my husband, my lover, and I wanted to please him.

I quickly learned how to suck his cock, and even swallowed his semen when he orgasmed. We fucked in every position, and we even experimented with anal sex maybe a half-dozen times. I had to be really horny, and he had to work at it awhile, but once he got me going, I enjoyed it.

Naturally, as the years passed, the frequency waned a little, especially after we had our daughter, but we always had a normal loving relationship.

I'm telling you all of this about my background to emphasize just how hard it was for me to prostitute myself when things went bad. It went against everything I had been brought up to believe. Sex was for my husband, period, and it certainly wasn't for sale.

After we'd been married three years, Brett got a big promotion that brought him to the company headquarters in the city where all of this took place. For a couple of small-town kids, we took to the city like ducks to water. We loved the pace of life and the many activities for couples our age.

We had been living in the city about two years when we decided it was time to start a family. It took a little over a year, but we finally succeeded. Right before Christmas, not long before my 27th birthday in January, I gave birth to a girl, Ashley Noel.

By then, we had bought a house in the suburbs, in a nice neighborhood with excellent schools. It certainly wasn't a mansion; in fact, it was fairly modest by the standards of some of the houses in the area. But we liked it, and it became home.

Brett had a fair amount of pride, and he didn't like the idea of me working while we had a small child in the home. We talked vaguely about the possibility of my trying to go back to work part-time after Ashley started school, but not until then.

And, truthfully, I loved being a stay-at-home mom. I had always been a good housekeeper, and I was an excellent cook. In addition to the mundane chores, I had some flowerbeds that I kept, I exercised quite diligently, I took care of the household finances, I did crafts and I loved to read.

It was a comfortable existence. We were living out the American Dream, a happily married couple with a beautiful daughter, and we were talking about trying for another baby.

And in one awful night it came crashing down around us.

It was 10 days before my 30th birthday, on a bitterly cold Tuesday. Brett and I had made love the night before, snuggled warmly under the comforter. That morning, I sent him off in his car the way I'd done countless times before.

After listening to the weather forecast, I grew concerned, so I bundled up Ashley and we went to the grocery store to stock up on supplies. They were saying a severe winter storm was coming, perhaps as early as that evening, and I wanted to be prepared.

Brett was usually home from work by about 6:30, 7 at the latest, so when 8 o'clock rolled around and he wasn't home, I started to worry. By 9, I was getting frantic, and as 10 o'clock approached, I got a premonition that something was wrong.