Joe and Gillian Have a Problem
Joe understood the shock in Gillian's voice as it echoed against the kitchen tile. "What do you mean we owe twelve thousand dollars? How could we owe so much? We didn't even have a good year!"
Gillian was not just his wife, she was his business partner in their real estate firm and Joe had bungled one of his responsibilities. "Honey, it was two years ago. I made a mistake with a deduction," he tried to sound contrite, appealing to her sympathy. "I fucked up." Had he ever. Their business and personal income taxes had been audited, and the IRS—not to mention the state, city, and school district—had them by the short hairs. "It's the IRS. We've got to find the money to pay it," he told her, trying to keep his voice steady.
"But we spent it on this house," Gillian said, panic creeping into her voice. "We have nothing in the bank. We used all of our savings and we only put five percent down, so there's no equity. We basically have no assets." The tears, Joe knew, would be here soon. Her blue eyes were welling as she looked at him. "Can't we fight it? Get an extension?"
"I've tried. I even talked to Dave for advice." But Joe's best friend, a corporate attorney with a solid knowledge of tax law, took one look at the couple's accounts and just rolled his eyes. "He wasn't very encouraging. In fact he said it would be a waste of time and the penalties and interest would just get bigger."
Gillian raised her hands as if hoping an answer would fall into them, a gesture that raised her ample breasts, braless beneath her thin v-neck T-shirt, which Joe tried, and failed, to ignore. Then she let her arms drop to her sides. "That's it then, we're screwed."
It was time for Joe to play his last card—his only card. This wasn't the way he planned to bring up the subject, but he doubted if there was any perfect time. "We do have one asset." He looked his wife straight in the eye. "You."
She stared at him quizzically for several seconds, then Joe could see it sinking in. Her eyes widened. Then narrowed. "Are you saying you want me to fuck the IRS to pay our tax bill?"
Joe didn't want to laugh, but he did. "No, no. I mean, not exactly. Not the IRS. But there is a way to raise money. A lot of money. Fast." He quickly continued before she could protest. "Just listen. I'm not talking about putting you out on a street corner. There's this club that Dave told me about. He says it's really, really classy and discreet and expensive. He thinks we—I mean, you—could do really well there. It would only take maybe three times. Four tops." He rushed ahead. "And I'd be there. Watching. Dave says they might even let me, you know, participate since I'm your husband. We could make it part of the arrangement."
Gillian crossed her arms, a defensive, angry gesture, which had the effect of lifting and squeezing her breasts together and enhancing her cleavage, just visible between the curtains of her long, dark hair. Joe felt the familiar—if poorly timed—tingle in his groin and tried to focus on persuading Gillian, rather than pulling off her T-shirt and shorts.
He had put them in a terrible financial situation, but he believed his unorthodox plan could get them through it. And dammit, he couldn't deny it. He was turned on, more than a little, by the thought of watching his beautiful wife being used sexually by other men—maybe other women, too—while he watched.
It wasn't that she was a slut, far from it. He was sure she had never cheated on him, nor had he cheated on her. That was part of the attraction: the departure from the normal, the chance to see her put on display and to free her sexual appetite and carnal intensity, which he alone enjoyed behind their bedroom door. It was like his friend Dave had told him: "It's a criminal waste for her to only be available to you. She's so fucking gorgeous and sexy." Joe knew it. He knew how lucky he was to be with a woman like Gillian. And his calculated gamble now was riding on whether he had correctly judged her level of sexual curiosity.
At the moment, however, he wasn't sure where this was going. There was a deep red flush spreading up from that cleavage to her long, white, perfect neck as she glared at him. She was pissed. Or was she? With a groan of exasperation she dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, but not before Joe saw that her nipples had stiffened into rock-hard buds. She could never hide her arousal; her tits gave her away every time. So was she really angry, or really horny? Or both?
"Classy?" she said skeptically. "I don't think the words classy and sex club go together."
Joe sensed an opening and leaped into it. "You'd be surprised," he answered, settling into a chair across from her. Then he added quickly: "According to Dave."
