Rachel Williams married into money. No surprise there. She came from money, was born into money. She went to the finest prep school in the east, then Yale. Her focus was on Social Engineering and an MRS degree. What was surprising was that it took so long.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She was Mrs. David Wallace Johnson...scratch that, Ms. Rachel Williams Johnson. Perhaps her plans had been delayed a year or ten, but she is exactly where she always thought she'd be. She turned one way then the other nodding in approval. Long straight blonde hair, no fat, no sag, tight firm buttocks, perfectly shaped blonde triangle. 'David brings rugged good looks, class, culture, and money to the marriage and I bring this,' she sighed at the naked image in the full-length mirror, 'Ok. I have money of my own also.' She thought about the cause of the delay in her life-plan as she ran a finger across her slit, 'and I bring five years' experience that few of David's past partners can come close to matching,' she smiled to herself.
Rachel thought she'd found the man in her senior year in New Haven. She fell in love on her first date with Jack Jackson when he held to door on his Gold Aston Martin DB11. She worried she'd stain the velvety plush tan leather seats as she felt her panties dampen with her visceral arousal both to the man and the car. She had a rule, one that her mother hammered into her. No man wants to marry a whore so not even a kiss on the first date then tempt, tease on subsequent dates. When she finally gave in with her previous boyfriends it was as if she were giving them a rare gift.
All that went out the window along with her Spero Villioti cocktail dress. She spent the next five years traveling the world, seeing...fucking in every corner of the globe. When they got back Jack kissed her hard on the lips before boarding his plane with the daughter of a large shipping magnate they'd picked up in Singapore. "It's not personal," Jack told her kindly, "We've done everything, I need something new, that's all. I might be looking you up in the future, however."
It took her a year with her mother to get back on track and when she met David she was instantly taken by his confidence, his penetrating blue eyes, his Mercedes Maybach. She was going back to plan A, she thought when he picked her up for dinner and a play. Six months into their exclusive relationship, David took a chance slipping a hand between her thighs. He whispered how much he loved her and she opened her legs to more than just his fingers. She was treated to an incredible breakfast in the bed the next morning.
David proposed a month later and after the wedding of the year in their town, they spent a month traveling the world. Rachel gasped in amazement at La Louvre, the Great Pyramids, Macchu Pichu, and other exquisite sights she was reintroduced to for the first time. She never hinted she'd been there, done that. As to their nights, she again acted sweetly interested when David suggested variants to their love-making, always curious, always happy to oblige. David was more than satisfied when they finally made it back to his estate in the Hamptons.
Rachel happily put on her latest summer dress when it was time to get to know David's family and friends in a less formal atmosphere than the wedding attended by over 300 guests. She checked herself in the mirror, outwardly demure, modest. She nodded anticipating how pleased David will be with the stockings, garter belt, and, crotchless panties hiding underneath. She overheard comments about how she was a prude, an ice queen from men she'd briefly dated or their new girlfriends but that was fine. She was none of that when she was alone with David.
After getting to know David's family and they were finally alone, she gleefully allowed her husband to do what he wanted after she demurely let her dress puddle to the floor. He'd grinned seeing the exposed pussy before pushing her back on the bed.
The next morning, Rachel's mother-in-law whispered to her, "three times? Perhaps you can tell me what you are putting into David's drinks," she'd smiled. "It's a large house, but a lot of sound goes through the ventilation shafts."
The rest of the week was frustrating for both of them feeling watched...heard by David's family...but Rachel learned to stifle her moans so they were able to get some satisfaction.
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Over the next year, she'd expanded her involvement in all David's holdings. Rachel was shown the various enterprises they owned and was increasingly brought in as she had not only a keen business sense but a surprising worldview. Davis leaned on her more and more when discussing expansion, potential mergers, acquisitions, and in some cases hiring.
It was a Thursday, over a year after her introduction into David's society that she came across a business venture she missed before. 'This has a huge profit margin for such a small enterprise. Glamour Shoots?' she thought. 'This makes little sense. Eight digit income from a photography studio?' It was by all standards a minor asset, which is how it managed to fly under the radar but something piqued her curiosity. What caught her attention were the depreciable assets. How much do cameras cost?
She changed into a casual but stylish dress David had purchased for her in Hawaii, her blonde hair pulled back into a bun, comfortable flats as this was not the best part of town. As she stepped out of the front door, Their chauffeur looked over from the Silver Cloud he was polishing.
"Mrs, Johnson, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were going out." He walked quickly over to the rear passenger door."
"Dammit, Jerome, Rachel. Please call me Rachel, but relax. I'm taking the Benz. I rarely get to drive anymore," she went over and kissed the older man on the cheek.
The man blushed, "Sorry, Mrs. Johnson, we've been over this. Wait here, I'll get the Mercedes. I just finished waxing it and the tank is full," he smiled at the woman before trotting back towards the garages.
She climbed into her Mercedes E-Class Convertable, her pussy tingling as she felt the engine roar to life. She test drove over a dozen cars and never told David why this one was the best, but the engine vibrations coming through the firm seats sold her. As she pulled out, she turned her thoughts to the studio. How would she be received as David's wife? She wanted to get a clear picture of what is going on there and going in as...she needed to think of something...potential client! That would work.
She looked around the parking lot. The healthy payroll did not translate to anything more than basic transportation, she mused. The area was rundown and tired-looking. She looked in the mirror realizing she was a bit over-dressed, over made up. She pulled the pins out of her perfectly coifed hair, brushed it onto her shoulders, then pulled off her rings, one of which had a diamond large enough to have covered the cost of all the cars in the lot. Her makeup had to go so she removed all but the Dior Rouge lipstick. She looked like the girl next door. No way was she going is as the wife of David Johnson, but as a suburban housewife looking for...what? she thought. She giggled to herself thinking this was just like the TV show except it would be it would be Boss's Undercover Wife. She locked her purse and rings in the glove box and got out.
The waiting room was filled with photos of beautiful men and women in various poses and attire. From dresses appropriate for the opera to lingerie at home in the bedrooms of the better estates. She was about to innocently inquire about their services when a hand grabbed her upper arm.
"There you are! Christ, it's," the tall man looked at his watch, "11:33! What part of 11 AM...shit, come on, what the fuck are you wearing? You're supposed to be a geeky coed, not a spoiled rich girl, for God's sake. Time is money!"
"She was in the parking lot in her daddy's car preening herself," the otherwise bored-looking receptionist volunteered.
"I'm sorry..." Rachel was taken aback but managed a few words.
"Got it, yes. You're sorry you're late." He turned to look behind him. "Christ! These fucking entitled girls these days. Do you have an ID? We need to make sure you're at least 18," he snapped.
"Um," Rachel looked back at her car.
"I got it here. Billy sent it over," the receptionist held up a piece of paper, "She's 22."
