Hubbys Whore Ch 02

Chapter Two

"Tonight?" I asked

"Tonight," he said.

"David, I," I started but he cut me off.

"Tricia," he said, "you can always find a reason to put things off. So now make a decision."

I took a deep breath and said, "okay, let's do this."

He grinned, that boyish grin that always got to me.

"So, get up to the bedroom and get one of your work uniforms on," he said and slapped my ass hard enough to make me yelp.

I don't think, in my entire life, before or since, I have ever been as nervous as I was during that trip up the stairs.

In the bedroom, I stripped naked and couldn't resist standing in front of my full-length mirror.

DAMN! I looked good. The hairless look was working and the things they had done for my face and hair at the spa were really spot on. I did look like a 40-something whore. "God, I hope they like stretch marks," I said, very softly to myself, running my fingertips over my belly.

I chose the black underwear.

The garter belt first. It actually highlighted the way my waist had disappeared, replaced with my stretch-marked belly and big ass. I had to think hard and then remembered the time I had been a bridesmaid for my cousin Beverly to find the last time in my memory I had worn a garter belt and nylons.

But I remembered how. I rolled the nylons and then worked them up, carefully, doing that double-jointed thing I believe is linked to the lack of a Y chromosome thing to twist around and get the seams straight. I adjusted the hooks to make sure the nylons were held high and tight.

The panties were so sheer the slit of my pussy and the fullness of my labia were fully on display.

The bra did its job. It lifted and put several inches of cleavage on display. The blue veins and freckles showed nicely.

The skirt was just a skirt, and the top just a top. I selected the black pumps with white tops for shoes.

I was never much of a jewelry gal, but I did have some costume jewelry from various Halloweens and a very nice jangly turquoise bracelet and necklace set, a souvenir from a trip to Four Corners where Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico met, the only place in the United States where four states touched. It was also a bit of a tourist trap and Indians sold their silver and turquoise there at very reasonable prices so I had these nice pieces.

I stopped at the mirror again and said, "are you really going to do this?"

The image in the mirror didn't answer, but she smiled knowingly.

I took a deep breath and started down the stairs to meet my husband who would soon rent me out.

He whistled when I walked into the room.

"Oh yeah," he said, "I'd kiss you but I don't want to mar my moneymaker."

He took both of my hands in his and said, "Okay, toots, last chance to say 'no'."

I smiled and said, "nope. Let's go sell my ass. Well, rent it out anyway."

It was Friday night so we went downtown to one of the big hotels. He parked the car and opened the door for me like a gentleman.

As we walked into the lounge my bowels suddenly went hot and watery with my nerves.

"Oh God," I said, "where is the bathroom in this joint?"

He chuckled and pointed.

I barely made it, walking with that, oh-shit-I'm-squeezing-my-asshole-shut walk we've all had to use from time to time.

The panties were no problem but I was certain this would be diarrhea so I pushed the garter belt and nylons down too.

It was explosive and stank. I sat while my bowels emptied, shuddering a little.

Finally empty, I wiped and flushed and wiped and flushed and wiped and flushed until the paper came away clean.

I stood, awkward in the stall and needing to adjust things, but finally got panties and garter belt up and seams straight.

I washed my hands and rinsed my mouth, checked myself in the mirror, smiled, smiled again until I got it right, and went back out to where David was waiting in the lobby.

"Second thoughts?" he asked.

"No," I said, "just nerves, but I'm okay."

"And you're sure?" he asked.

"I am," I said.

He walked me into the lounge then, my hand lightly on his arm which he held crooked in that way you see in old movies.

At the bar, he helped me into one of the bar chairs, not really stools since they did have a back, put his lips near my ear, and whispered, "you remember the procedure?"

I said, simply, "Yes."

He left me there then, going to one of the hubcap-sized tables that were scattered around the room.

I ordered a Pina Colada, thinking sucking the drink from the straw would probably be the best look for a hooker.

The television was showing some football game, something in which I have essentially zero interest, but I looked at it anyway.

The drink came and I took a sip, thinking as I did, I needed to be careful. I really did not want to get drunk.

The first approach was almost laughably awkward.

"Buy you a drink?" he asked and when I looked he could not have been more obviously a college student if he had had a big sign on his chest saying "College Student."

"Thank you for the compliment, sweety," I said, "but I'm pretty sure you don't have the price but you're welcome to talk to my manager over there if you'd like."

He smiled, a very nice smile, and left.

The bartender chuckled and said, "for the record, you're welcome to stay but be discrete. We do have a reputation."

I flashed him my very best smile.

There were three more approaches before one got past my suggestion to "talk to my manager."

He was handsome in that stout way of many senior executives I had met during David's climb up the career ladder. Steel-grey hair with a well-trimmed goatee gave him a distinguished look. The cut of his suit said he was well-paid, as did his expensive and well-shined shoes and the fancy Rolex Mariner on his wrist.

"Are you available?" he asked, putting it right out there.

"At the right price," I said, following the script David and I had worked out.

"And what would that be?" he asked.

"You'll need to talk to my manager," I said, nodding in the direction of David's table.

He smiled and nodded. "Very professional," he said and went to join David.

It was hard, but as David and I had discussed, I turned my back on that table and my attention back to the television. I heard voices but they were too low for me to hear the dialogue. The bright flash told me David had taken his picture, so I knew they had made the deal for me.

The longest five minutes of my life passed before I felt a light touch on my arm.

"Your manager said to hand you this," he said and handed me a sealed envelope.

It's a good thing I had spent so much time in the toilet earlier because I felt my bowels go hot again with another adrenaline rush.

IT WAS REALLY HAPPENING!

I pasted a smile on and turned to face him.

He was holding out his hand, so I took it.

"Henry," he said, "but call me Hank."

"Patricia," I said, and touched his arm in that way all women know how to do to show interest, I think it's in the genes, "call me anything you want but Patty is what my clients call me."

"So," he said, "it's your town, where can we get dinner and a drink or six?"

"Full dinner or just good sandwiches and beer?" I asked.

"Hmmm," he said, looking me up and down, "I think just sandwiches and beer."

I sucked a bit on my straw, trying to look as slutty as possible, and then hopped off of the bar chair, took his hand, and said, "come with me sugar."

We held hands walking down the street to "Moe's," a fixture in downtown where they served good bar food, beer at precisely 34 degrees, and had live music every night.

Since it was a Friday night, early in the evening, the place was packed but Hank passed the hostess a folded bill, I thought it was a hundred, and miraculously, a table opened up.

At the table, he ordered a pitcher of beer, without asking what I wanted, and asked for menus.

I ordered a "Slopper," Moe's signature sandwich, an oversized half-pound burger served open face, covered with a mild green chili, and accompanied by a heaping pile of hand-cut French fries. Hank had the Reuben deLuxe.

The band wasn't bad. The frontman had a Les Paul and a Marshall stack and was pretty good. His backup was adequate. They featured oldies from the doo-wop era and I enjoyed them. Plus, they weren't too loud for conversation.

And it was an interesting conversation. Hank was, it turned out, a civil engineer working on a major hospital renovation. I told him I had noticed the fencing and the work going on and he waxed eloquent about what they were doing.

Plates cleared, mouths wiped on the cloth napkins, and the second pitcher on the table, he stood and said, let's dance.

I'm a pretty good dancer for all that I'm a big girl so I went, not bothered at all that we were the only couple on the tiny dance floor.

The lead singer was doing a passable Bill Medley homage with "Unchained Melody," and he offered me the classic slow dance position, my right hand laying in his left, my left on his shoulder, his right on my hip. We stood a moment, catching the beat, and then stepped off. He led well and we were, I thought, pretty good.

When I band started into "Great Balls of Fire," I expected him to walk me back to the table but instead, he grinned and spun me into a very good bop.

I was a little winded when that ended and said, "I need to visit the girl's room."

He smiled, patted my ass, and said, "hurry back."

I did need to pee. I don't hold beer very well. But also, I had had a thought.

So I sat and peed and stepped out of my panties when I was done.

While I was in there I opened my purse and took out the little envelope Hank had handed me. It was the, well, the "work order" I guess you'd call it. I looked at the, well, the "services" for which he had signed up (I was still having trouble with the nomenclature at that point). "Anal," and "Spanking (light)." Okay, so now I knew what to expect.

Then, awkward in the stall, I took off my top, got the bra off, put the top back on, and stepped out to wash my hands.

I laid the bra and panties on the sink while I washed my hands and the girl who walked in saw them and giggled. "Someone's getting lucky tonight," she said as she closed the door to the stall.

My nipples were so hard they ached as I headed back to the table and I was aware of my lack of underwear and the way my tits swayed when I didn't wear a bra. I know it was my imagination but I was certain every eye in the place was on me.

At the table, he stood like a gentleman when I approached.

I smiled and said, "give me your hand."

He had a quizzical look but smiled when I handed him the bra and panties. I didn't make a production of it, but I didn't try to hide anything either. I heard, "you go girl," and turned to see a middle-aged woman, obviously made up for date night with her middle-aged husband, smiling at me and giving me a thumbs up. I grinned at her and sat.

I watched a little play as she leaned over and said something to her husband. She got up and headed for the bathrooms. She was bigger than me but moved well, working her way through tables without bumping into any.

"Side bet?" I asked Hank.

"Sure," he said, "what."

"Did you see her heading for the bathrooms?" I asked.

He looked puzzled. "No, Patty," he said, "I've been looking at you."

I giggled and then laughed. Well, I was a bit drunk by then.

"God, you ARE sweet," I said.

"The bet is this," I went on, "see the man sitting alone at the table over your right shoulder?"

He sort of stretched to cover his looking around.

"Yes," he said, turning back to me.

"When his wife comes back she's going to hand him her underwear just like I did," I said.

"Okay," he said, "and what's the bet then?"

"If I'm wrong, one of the extras you signed up for is free," I said, "but if I'm right it's double."

He grinned and offered his hand.

"Done," he said.

I knew I had won as soon as I saw her. As I had done, she wasn't making a production of it, but she wasn't hiding the bra and, I assumed, the panties in her hand as she made her way back to her table. And like me, she swayed pretty obviously as she walked. At the table, and I noticed her husband did NOT stand, she winked at me and handed them to him. It was an interesting smile that spread across his face.

"Toldya," I said and Hank groaned theatrically.

As we finished our last beers from the pitcher I stood and said, not theatrically loud but loud enough to be heard, "Okay Goose, take me to bed or lose me forever," repeating that wonderful line from the movie "Top Gun."

He grinned, broadly, stood, and took my hand.

We walked back to the hotel in one of those companionable silences, holding hands like we were on a high school date.

He punched 17 on the elevator pad and we rode up, still saying nothing.

In the room, he smiled and said, "your town Patty, find something soft on the radio."

I tuned to 104.6, a station I knew that specialized in "torch songs" and, sure enough, the first thing that came up was Peggy Lee's definitive version of "Fever."

"Get me a beer, baby," he said and I noticed a subtle change in his voice. He was taking, well, "command" is a good word for it.

So I checked the little refrigerator and saw Sam Adams, Amber in bottles. I looked in the cabinet of the kitchen area of his suite, found a glass, carefully poured the beer, leaving a half-inch head, and took it to him.

He was sitting in the overstuffed chair by then.

"Strip for me, Patty," he said, "and make it good."

I felt a rush, realizing that our "date" was, actually, a business transaction and it was payoff time.

But it wasn't an unpleasant rush. I felt that pressure low in my belly and know if I touched myself I'd be wet.

I lifted his hand and kissed his palm.

"Let me please you," I said and stood and went to stand about six feet in front of him.

By then, Julie London was doing "Cry Me A River," a much slower rhythm. I took a second to pick up the beat, set my feet a little wider than shoulder-width, and started my hips moving with the rhythm, holding my torso still. Those belly dancing classes paying off finally.

I used both hands to play with my hair, as my hips did their dance of desire.

It wasn't really a stripper outfit so I crossed my arms, found the bottom of the top, and peeled it off.

He whistled softly as I began a slow shimmy, my heavy tits swaying opposite my hips.

I did a slow turn, my hands dropping quickly to the button and zipper at the back of the skirt and letting it drop before kicking it away on a drum beat.

My strip tease finished with Lena Horne doing "Stormy Weather."

When the music ended I went to him and got on my knees before him, took his hands and kissed each palm, laid my chin on his knee, and asked, "do I please you?"

He grinned and said, "so far, worth every penny."

I gave him what I hoped was a good winning smile.

"Stand up and turn around," he said, that snap back in his voice.

I found it exciting.

So I stood and turned.

"Back up to me," he said, and I shuffled back until I felt his hands on my hips.

"Bend over, spread your cheeks, and show me what I'm paying extra for," he said.

I had another adrenaline rush. This was not something I had ever done before. But I bent and reached back to spread my cheeks, offering my freshly bleached asshole for his inspection.

I knew what he was seeing. When I get aroused, my Bartholin Glands, those little glands at the entrance to a woman's vagina, produce a thick, white, creamy substance, my natural lubricant, in great quantities. David had commented once that I was the "wettest" woman he had ever known, so one time, when he was gone, I got a couple of mirrors to see what he meant. And it looked like I had just been fucked. My lubricant was thick and white and as I watched a thick string of it ran out and puddled on the sheet below where I had been on all fours with my pink vibrator buzzing away inside me.

He whistled softly.

"Jesus," he said, "gorgeous."

I felt him touch my pussy where I knew I would be flowing.

I jerked away when he touched my anus and he slapped my ass hard enough to make me yelp.

"Spanking (light)" I remembered and felt a contraction in my belly and knew my love nectar would be hanging in strings.

"I'm sorry, baby," I said, holding my cheeks spread wide and backing up to him.

I was ready this time and didn't flinch when his finger entered me.

I enjoy anal, adore the full feeling of having those powerful sphincter muscles stretched, and so I sighed as his finger went deeper.

"Like that?" he asked.

"I love that," I said, and felt his finger moving around inside my rectum. I hummed and moved my hips, encouraging him.

I squeezed on his finger and he said, "nice."

He pulled his finger out quickly and said, "turn around and get on your knees," in that snappy voice.

So I did as commanded.

"Look at me," he said and I met his eyes.

"Open your mouth," he said.

I had one of those rushes deep in my belly, understanding what was coming, but I opened my mouth.

When he held up his middle finger it was covered with a mixture of white lubricant and brown, well, shit.

"You made my finger dirty," he said, "now clean it."

He put his finger in my open mouth and I drew in a breath and closed my lips on it.

It's not my favorite thing, but David often wanted me to clean him after taking me anally, so it wasn't something I couldn't do. As I used my tongue I could taste my lubricant, salty and a little oily. The shit had no taste.

I grabbed his wrist in my hands, holding his eyes, as I started bobbing my head slowly, as if I was sucking his cock, not his finger.

He smiled.

Finally, I pulled his finger free and brushed it against my face, my cheeks, my forehead, and smiled at him.

"Do I please you?" I asked.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh yeah," he said.

The sex that followed was as good as I could make it and I'm pretty damn good if I do say so myself.

He had me undress him first, something I always enjoyed doing. I did his shirt buttons one at a time, tickling and kissing the skin I revealed. He was one of those hairy men, and I licked the hair on his chest, grooming him like a cat, drawing satisfied little humming sounds from him.

On his belly, the hair was even thicker and I continued the cat bath, making him giggle when I probed his navel with my tongue.

I was on my knees then, him standing over me, and I took each foot in turn onto my lap and got a shoe and sock off. His hands went to my shoulders for support.

His cock, when I got his pants off, was very thick and very stubby. He was hard and barely protruded past the great mass of his pubic hair. I kissed it, took the head into my mouth, sucked a little, and then caressed it with my face.

"Beautiful," I said very softly, to him and his cock at the same time. And I meant it. Since shedding my virginity at, well, never mind what age, I had always loved cock. I love the shape of it, the feel of it as it gets hard, the taste of it. I like big ones and small ones. Short ones and long ones. I guess, when you get down to it, it's hardly surprising that I wound up hooking.

I kissed my way down his legs, licking the thick hair on his thighs and calves until I was prostrate before him, kissing his feet as he stood over me, my tongue probing between each toe.

I got back up onto my knees and looked up at him, meeting his eyes as I kissed his cock again.

"I love you," I said, and in that moment I meant it, just as I had all of those times with David's boss.

I stood then, slowly, I like to think gracefully, my breasts brushing his body as I stood.

"On the bed baby," I said, "on your belly. Let me take you places you've never been."

He grinned.

"Oh my," he said, "you ARE something, Patty."