[Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, I did it again. The story of Tricia and David and her entry into the world's oldest profession has captivated me since it first sprung, full-blown one morning, like Athena from Zeus's brow. But other things capture my OCD-damaged attention span, and it's been too long since I checked in on Tricia and David and her new life. So let's peek, shall we, and see how things are going.]
The hotel had a big selection of stores on the ground level, almost a miniature mall. The rooms and the meeting areas began on the second floor. There was a
Victoria's Secret
, catering to corporate wives I assumed, and next to it a knock-off -
Victoria's Big Secret
- that catered to those of us who no longer fit into a size zero.
Oh, who am I kidding? I NEVER fit into anything smaller than a size 8.
For the luncheon, I selected a cream-colored lacy bra and matching granny panties, something that would show my boobs and their bruises while not being too obvious.
The obvious would wait for the banquet. For that, I selected a long line, strapless bra that would lay my tits on the wireframe, fully displayed. A matching pair of string thong panties (what I always called buttfloss) with a triangle of material that fits between my legs so sheer I could read a newspaper through it. A lacy garter belt and sheer nylons with a seam up the back completed my underwear needs.
I had more fun at the clothing store, a local shop, not a chain, with the plebian name
Betty's
.
For the luncheon, I selected a jumpsuit, very modest, in a flesh color that made me look naked. I was covered in material from my throat, where a turtleneck-style collar covered my neck, all of the way down to the flowing legs where the material brushed the tops of my shoes and the cuffs included finger loops leaving only my fingers exposed. The top, though, was cut with a trapezoidal-shaped opening so that I was bare from right at the top of the bra to my shoulders.
When I tried it on I couldn't stop the laugh. "Oh Chester," I thought, "how are you going to explain this."
The dress for the banquet was even more revealing. It was floor-length and fuck-me red, but left my shoulders bare. A collar of material connected the front and back via a thread so thin it was almost invisible but strong enough to keep the thing from falling off. The side was slit to my waist, showing ALL of my leg with each step.
I didn't feel guilty. Hell, I got him out for under $500 for the whole works.
I had pretty much blown the morning by then, so I went back to the room to "freshen up."
I showered and then spent the best part of an hour on my face and hair. By the time I was done, I looked like a good suburban wife ready for date night. My hair was up, not country and western singer big, mom-going-to-her-son's-wedding big, waved, with a sexy little curl over one eye. The makeup was the same, nicely enhancing but with no wild colored dark eye shadow or butterfly wing eyelashes.
The jumpsuit was perfect for this event. I looked naked, but I was completely covered except for the trapezoid of skin on display from my shoulders to the tops of that new bra. The little circular bruises were very much on display. I gave a thought to slapping myself to give my cheek a little color and maybe even a bit of swelling, but I decided that would be too much.
I texted Chet - "when and where for lunch?"
And then waited. I turned on the room TV, finding Fox News to see what was happening in the world today.
It was noon, straight up, when my phone buzzed with - "The Oneida Room, now."
So I took one more look, unnecessarily touched my hair, made sure my nipples were pointed straight ahead, and headed down to find the "Oneida room," wondering who in the hell named these things.
I took the elevator down to the lobby and asked. My heels clicked on the tile floor, and my stride was firm and confident. Hell, I felt confident. I was figuring things out.
I got the directions and found the room, a big room. It was one of those convertible rooms with the tracks for slideaway walls visible at about 16-foot intervals. The room was dotted with round tables, each set for 10, so my quick count estimated there would be 200 people here if all the seats were filled, and it looked like they would be.
"Jesus," I thought, "big audience for my debut as a fantasy wife."
I looked around and then moved, following the edge of the room, and took two steps up onto the stage so I could see better.
I felt like every eye was on me although if I'm being honest, most of the conversations went on, not paying any attention to me at all.
But it felt that way and I arched my back a little, putting the girls on display.
I finally spotted him, in a group of a dozen or so, mostly men but with a few women. The professional women were obvious because they were dressed like the professional men in dark suits with white shirts and bright power ties or, in one case I happened to notice, a bright red power scarf that made me think of wearing something similar to cover a hickey when I was in high school.
I walked over to him and broke into the conversation by taking his upper arm in both of my hands, kissing his cheek, and saying, loud enough to be heard by the group, "There you are, baby. I was beginning to think I had gone to the wrong room."
I hung onto his arm with my hands, looking up at him, deliberately ignoring the rest of the group.
He took a couple of seconds to recover but then picked up on the scene. I guess you don't get to be an executive without being reasonably quick on the uptake.
He grinned and kissed me and then turned to the group.
"This is my wife, Pam," he said, and then worked his way around the circle, making introductions that bounced off of me. I had my best I-don't-really-care-who-you-are smile on. I did remember Michael, tall and ridiculously good-looking, very young, I guessed no more than 40, to be in this group.
And there was the woman in the red scarf, introduced as Margaret. Up close, she was much older than she seemed from across the room. It was obvious she spent a lot of time, and a lot of money, on her appearance. And the knowing smile she gave me made me pretty damn sure I was right about the reason for the scarf. Any doubt at all was shredded when a handsome young man, I guessed him not yet 30, brought her a drink and then stood beside her, quietly, his hand very light on her hip
If he wasn't a gigolo I'm not a whore.
Lunch was exactly what those lunches always were. I had been to dozens with David. There was the small talk about subjects of precisely zero interest to me. Then there was the seating with that awkward bit of decision-making while places and pecking orders were established. Lunch was rubber chicken, mashed potatoes with a gravy that was probably purchased in 55-gallon drums poured over them, overcooked peas, soggy salad, rolls that bounced, and, praise Jesus, iced tea that was pretty good.
The conversation was as uninteresting as I had expected, but I hung onto Chester's every word, ignoring everyone else, as I had learned to do working my way up the corporate ladder. Every once in a while I met Margaret's gigolo's eyes and we shared a knowing smile.
But I gushed. I laughed at silly jokes. I interjected the occasional, "Oh, that was perceptive" or some other pablum.
My hand, under the tablecloth, found his thigh making him jump a little and making me giggle.
Luncheon over, I kissed him and patted his ass.
I stopped in the bathroom to pee, not quite ready to head back up to the room. As I started washing my hands one of the other wives came in. I dug for her name but my memory would not spit it out.
She came up to me, her eyes on the bruises I was showing off, and she took both of my hands in hers like I was her long-lost sister.
"Are you all right, Pam?" she asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I replied, still struggling for her name.
"Well," and she looked down at my boobs, "it looks like things might get too rough."
I deliberately lifted my boobs and gave them a shake.
"These?" I asked.
"Well, he's a passionate man and he enjoys them," I said, smiling.
Then I gave them another shake.
"Almost as much as I do," I added.
