Asexual Wife Whores Herself Out

Tuesday Night

My husband gets a condom. I silence a sigh, part my legs and mentally put on my mask of calm. Without groping me, without foreplay, he lowers his fat middle-aged body onto mine. His three inches enter me, motions slow and predictable enough that I can maintain a serene stillness.

In a sense, Gordon is my perfect mate. Ideally, of course, nobody would ever be inside me. But then I'd have to work for a living. Being kept in luxury is worth momentary unpleasantness now and then. Best that the intruder be the smallest and least bothersome.

Wednesday

If Gordon's negotiation goes well today, the contract should make us a millionaire couple. But that evening, his face is all tension and guilt. It takes me a while to coax the truth from him: as a condition of closing the deal, Theodore Long wants me in bed. Gordon insists he'll refuse, then drinks himself into a stupor.

I can't sleep. It's a horrible prospect, but I married Gordon expecting one day he'd be very rich. I'll be damned before I let that escape.

In the morning I get straight to the point. "When you call him today, tell him--" I force myself. "We agree."

Despite his protests I take the phone from his discarded jacket. I call Theodore Long from the contacts and arrange to arrive at seven on Friday. I must wear my hair up.

Friday

Gordon blusters, forbidding me to do this. "I don't consent to you being unfaithful to me!"

"Well I do, Gordon, and only my consent is required."

"If you f-fornicate with Theodore Long, you're doing it against my wishes!"

"You'll thank me for this when we're millionaires, Gordon." He looks oddly satisfied with this, and stamps off.

In the afternoon I shave every hair below my neck, shower, dress, drive, arrive. A black maid conveys me to a man of around fifty.

"Arabella. I must say, you look lovely."

"Th-thank you, Mr. Long." Stammering, am I? Don't act like some naive schoolgirl! I'm a sophisticated lady who's done this with plenty of men before, back when I was fishing for a lifelong provider.

Pop!

I jump, then see the dark girl filling two flutes with champagne. Oh, very graceful, Arabella, startled by such a thing.

He raises his glass. "To Gordon's prosperity."

"Yes. To.... Gordon's prosperity." I find myself gulping instead of sipping. I rarely drink, but now I need it. But I make myself slow down. This is hardly elegant.

"Something stronger? Vodka and tonic, perhaps? You seem to need something to relax you."

I mean to say no, but somehow the word "Yes" emerges. I swiftly follow with "Yes please, sir."

Sir?

Well, I'm here to please.

The servant mixes my drink, and I make sure to sip it this time. Then Mr. Long gestures toward my midriff. "Let's see what you have to tempt me."

The maid eyes me with insolent amusement. My shame being witnessed by the domestic help, that stings. Will she joke on Twitter tonight about how she watched a white lady degraded? Will she use my name?

Forget that. Don't delay compliance. I put my drink down on a table, trying to bend with grace, but my hand shakes and I spill some.

Behind my back, my quaking hands can't grasp the zipper. In my mind I reach for the mask of calm I've refined over years. I spread serenity through my whole being, stilling my fingers enough.

First I push off my shoes. Then -- time to unveil the goods. The zipper's rasp seems deafening as the dress slackens. I drop it to show off basque, stockings, lacy panties.

He kisses my shoulder, caresses up my spine. I imagine prostitutes can somehow turn off or ignore physical sensations. They'd go insane otherwise. But I am blessed with no such gift. I feel every touch, agonizingly vivid.

"Why are you here, Arabella?"

"To be, be your plaything, sir."

"And what does that involve?"

"It.... sir, I must obey you without question, sir."

He waves at my chest. I unclip the basque from my stockings, reach behind myself and undo its fastenings one by one. The last released, it pings forward, leaving me bare above the waist.

Next are the panties, and when I slide them down my pelvis turns sideways in concealment, which won't do. As I straighten up, I can't stop my knees pressing together, as if they hope to protect my interior from being pierced -- a forlorn hope, surely.

He fondles me more, then sits on a couch, before which is a cream-colored rug, and pats between his legs. "Foot here."

Guessing what he wants, I slide off one stocking then the other, dangling my bosom close to his face. I'm only wearing hair clips now. Oh, and my wedding ring.

He beckons and I place my knees on the couch, his legs between mine, and put my arms behind my back. He toys with my waist, neck, my collarbone, then moves down to my breasts, stroking and squeezing. My hands want to push him away, and to keep them in check I interlace my fingers. I will myself to dignified stillness, which grows more difficult as he entertains himself with my nipples. He takes one between his lips, and I feel myself grimace. He can't see my face now, so I my expression can't offend him. I concentrate on holding my position.

When his teeth close on my nipple, it's like an electric shock. My head jerks to the side, and I can't quite stay silent.

His hands stray lower: waist, navel, the mound I've so carefully made hairless. The fronts of my thighs, their inner surfaces, then the worst place of all. He slips in a single digit, and my jaw clenches. The finger-joints feel huge to the sensitive inside of my passage. I'm shuddering, face aflame.

He flexes the finger and a spasm of distress ripples up my whole spine, snapping my head back. An ungainly cry bursts from my mouth, crude, guttural. It takes all my discipline not to flee. My torso convulses like some demented dancer who can't keep time. I lock my throat tight to keep silent, but my breath scrapes out in a sick rasp. I abandon the effort, and let the cacophony escape.

After he withdraws, it's obvious he found my shameful display amusing. I wipe the tears from my eyes and do my best to smile, but it must be a wan effort.

He pats my thigh. "Off me now, Arabella. Down on the floor."

"Y-yes, yes sir." I descend to my hands and knees.

He undresses revealing a giant, easily longer than anything that's ever filled me. This just gets worse and worse. He perches on the very edge of the couch, thighs wide apart, rampant phallus angled upward. Points to the floor immediately before him. On all fours I crawl until the angry beast is horribly close to my face. His eyes look straight into mine, then down at his rigid enormity.

I open my jaw and inch myself forward. But as the tip is about to touch, my head twists to the side.

"Arabella? What's the matter?"

"I -- I -- sir, I -- I've --"

"You've never had one in your mouth before?"

"N-no sir."

He laughs as if this is the best joke he's heard in years. "How on earth is that possible in the modern world?"

"I -- sir, Gordon's never asked for it, sir."

"Don't tell me Gordon's the only man who's had you."

"No, sir, there were others, but.... sir, whenever a man asked for that, I.... I ended it, sir. I didn't want to marry a man who'd want that."

"And the only men you've ever been with, you saw as prospective husbands?"

"Yes sir."

"Arabella.... have you ever enjoyed getting poked?"

"No sir."

"It's only ever given been a means to secure a man's wealth."

"Ye-yes sir."

"You're a prostitute with only one customer."

"Yes sir."

He laughs again. "Well then, it's time to practice your profession. Tell me you're my two-dollar whore."

My head seems to tighten as if crushed, vision momentarily dark, but I manage to humiliate myself. "Please sir, I'm your two-dollar whore, sir."

"And what do I get for my two dollars, you worthless slut?"

"Please -- sir -- I'll, I'll do any.... anything you want for two dollars, sir."

"How much will it cost me to be the first one who ever fucks your mouth?"

"Sir -- sir, that.... only costs fifty cents, sir. The other dollar fifty covers everything else you want, sir."

"Okay then. Give me this fifty cent blowjob."

"Yes sir."

I get the helmet in the middle of my mouth, close my lips around the shaft and tentatively lick, here and there, barely touching. This isn't good enough, is it? I press the whole front half of my tongue against the underside, rub forward and backward. I wrap around it, up each side, pull back to lick the head.

"Come closer. All the way in."

I ease forward. The monster slides deeper in until it butts against the back of my mouth.

"Now pull back, and do that again."

I flex my neck, then reverse course. It slowly re-enters as far as it can go. Without orders I keep repeating the motion. Until now I've only ever lain under a man, enduring stabbings. Having to supply the effort powering my own impalement is a new cruelty.

"Faster, Arabella."

I increase my speed. Whenever the back of my mouth hits the intruder's end, there's a distinct discomfort.

"Deeper."

I freeze in shock, but then gather myself. If I don't submit, Gordon will lose this contract and everything I've suffered will have been in vain. So I push forward again, and drive my own throat hard onto the spike. Choking, I draw back and do it again, again, again, trying to keep to the pace up. Each time it's worse. How long can I inflict this brutality on myself? How long can I keep from vomiting?

"Stop!"

I pull my body back, heart racing. My lungs heave, breaths ragged.

"Now wrap your tits around it."

I curve my spine back until my chest is vertical, grasp my breasts, push them forward and together so that they enclose the hot stiffness. I exert my quadriceps, body rising until the head is buried in the deepest part of my bosom. Then I relax, falling until his excessively long manhood projects well out.

Up, down, up, down. I don't wait for his command, but speed up until I'm running his shaft between my breasts as fast as I can manage. It's a lot of physical exertion, and my thigh muscles burn. Sweat stings my eyes.

His rod throbs with increasing urgency and he cries "Slow!" in a strangled voice. I reduce my speed, and a moment later a deluge of warm fluid spatters against my throat and under my chin. I keep moving at the same slow pace and he sprays more and more. It runs down my chest, much of it into the valley enclosing his length.

I continue until he pushes back my forehead. At this I whip my hands away into empty space, unsure what to do. He admires the result of his handiwork -- or rather, his cockiwork.

Some of it drips, and worried about his carpet I clutch at the lower part of my globes, trying to catch it.

"Rub it in. And don't worry about the rug, Arabella. I chose it for this."

I glance down, and indeed I'm kneeling on a rug the color of sperm. My palms and splayed fingers smear his seed around my twins and the plain above them.

"And your face."

I run one hand and then the other up the front of my neck, gathering the cream there, and plaster my cheeks with it. Once they're covered in a sticky film I start licking my palms.

"Good girl. Now take me in your mouth again. But not like before. This time just make me come."

I don't know how to do that. I try flicking the base of his head as fast as I can. It takes a while, but gradually I feel it growing more excited. It shoots over my tongue and I swallow its effluent, not stopping until it's obvious no more will be forthcoming. I release it from my mouth and kneel back, awaiting further instructions. I want to look humble, but I detect a smile of self-satisfaction on my face. Careful, Arabella. Don't be arrogant.

"Now let's clean you up." Upstairs in the spacious shower, he takes the showerhead from its mounting and presses a button. Cold water shocks me and I shriek in surprise, which I try to disguise as a squeal of delight.

In seconds it warms to a pleasant temperature and he wets my face but not my hair, still perched atop my head. He rubs soap on his hands and lathers my cheeks, neck, chest. He moves down my body and I lean forward to let one soapy finger clean between my buttocks. Last of all he thoroughly washes between my legs.

After we towel each other dry he puts on the only bathrobe. I'm naked as we enter the dining room. Two more maids, one white and one perhaps Chinese or Korean, don't turn a hair at my state of undress.

The food is divine. At one point a drip of butter from the lobster falls on my chest, and Mr. Long orders me not to wipe it away. For the rest of the meal it gradually works its way down my belly and between my legs.

The servants refill my wineglass as quickly as I empty it, and I find myself drinking more than I'm used to. After eating we sip liqueurs, anticipating still deeper subjugation, until he says, "Now. Time for the main event."

I'm a little unsteady from the alcohol. The master bedroom is huge, bed-sheets already turned back, and the black maid is waiting.

"Take her hair down."

"Yes sir."

I fail to entirely suppress a flinch as the dark hands remove the clasps from my hair.

"That will be all, Mary."

"Yes sir. Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir."

"Thank you Mary."

When she's closed the door behind her, he glances to me and then to the bed. My instincts scream at me to run from the imminent vaginal onslaught, but I've committed to this sacrifice and I'll see it through to the end. I lie in the centre of the bed, open my legs, and summon the mask of calm. I

will

hold myself quiet and dignified.

He places one knee on the bed. Isn't he going to put on a condom? Until today, I've insisted on them every time.

This could make me pregnant!

My whole body tenses, pulling my knees up and inward. But I mustn't defy him. My fingers seize knots of bedsheet, nails pressing into my palms, but I force my legs wide again. My shins are in the air now, either side of my loins.

He touches my belly, my shaven mount of Venus, my inner thighs and finally my vulva.

Mask of calm! Mask of calm! Body still, face neutral, breathing regular!

Though he's about to befoul me with the worst thing there is, I can at least behave like a lady of sophistication.

He's clambering over me. The weapon must be approaching, unsheathed, the potent terror of masculine threat.

His offspring could take root in my womb!

It lands right on target and starts to nudge its way in, an inch, two. Another push, deeper. Again, still more. It's already further in than I've ever felt, and it keeps on going. Is there no end to this monster? Can my sanity survive such an overgrown horror storming my sanctum?

Nine months with a parasite inside me!

He pulls back out, leaving only a little more than his head still buried, then drives smoothly in again to the very hilt. He keeps on like that, slow even strokes that use his whole length. Though he's probing me more profoundly than anyone else ever has, at least it's predictable, not too energetic. I try to breathe with his rhythm, exhaling as he slides in.

Suddenly he's moving lightning-fast, six or seven brutal stabs that wrench a primal yell of violation from my throat. His initial stateliness was to lull me into a false sense of security. Now come rapid changes in tactics. Sometimes he's quick, sometimes slow. Some thrusts are long, others shorter. But I never know when he's going to switch.

I struggle to quell sounds and motions, to keep some shred of self-respect. But I'm too weak. He wields the instrument of torture inside me so fiendishly that I lose all control, my body thrashing beneath him as if I were on fire. My lungs empty in outraged howls, only to desperately suck air back in, then give vent to still more animalistic cries. It's the most graceless, least ladylike behavior imaginable.

He gouges me with a final long run of his most forceful jabs until his semen sprays into me. The first man's seed ever to stain the inside of my womanhood, like a mark of ownership.

His child might emerge through my vagina!

He continues slowly gliding within, still pumping out his male fluid. Eventually he stops and looks down on me with obvious self-satisfaction. I try to recover my equanimity with a cool, calm "Thank you, sir." But it's incomprehensible, as if my brain is broken. I take a few deep breaths, look him in the eye, then slowly form the words. "Thank you sir. Thank you for filling my body with your -- your s-seed." Damn it, Arabella! You almost regained your elegance there, but you had to go and stumble like some first-timer schoolgirl! I have another try: "Thank you for enjoying my pussy with your cock, sir."

"You're more than welcome."

Unfortunately, that's not the last. Despite his age, he has as much stamina as the worst of my boyfriends before Gordon. It goes on for hours.