Mary Moore - Whore wife

The thought repulsed her at first. Then she thought, well, why not? What better way to get money fast? The only concern she had was that no one locally should know about it. Especially not her husband.

But where could she go and get back in time to register far the course?

Then the idea hit her. Chicago. Chicago was only 125 miles away. She could go and come back in a day and a half. The bus would be about twenty dollars. That much she had. She only needed a contact there.

Frankie.

She quickly called information for the number. She dialed. He was out so she left a message. She waited eagerly by the phone. Then she remembered that he would be rehearsing all day.

She drove down to the theater. She saw him embracing the wife in the play, on the stage. Linda got horny watching. When the scene was finished, she walked through the door backstage and caught him. He was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Linda," he said, surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

"I called your hotel," she said, smiling. "But I thought I'd find you here faster."

"Well, yes, but…" He seemed a little embarrassed.

She drew him aside. "Look, Frankie, I have to talk to you. I don't know quite how to say this." She lowered her voice. "And it may sound cheap to you. I hope not. But I'm in need of some quick money. Do you know anyone in Chicago who can use my services for the night?"

"Do you know what you're saying? Did I hear you right?" Frankie said.

"Look, I'm in a financial bind, and I'll do just about anything to get opt of it."

"How much do you need?"

"Two hundred," she lied. She wanted it to be more than he could handle. She didn't want to borrow from him. She wanted to earn her way. She was determined. Even if it meant selling her body. Her soul.

"Do you need an abortion?" said Frankie solemnly.

She burst out laughing. "No, it's nothing like that. At least, I hope!"

"I wish I could help you, but I don't have that much to spare. Isn't there another alternative?"

"Do you know somebody, Frankie? Please! Someone with money."

"Yes, I do, I'm afraid. A rich producer in Chicago. He'll give anything for a hot cunt like yours, if you'll pardon the expression."

Linda winced. "You could have put it a little less bluntly."

Frankie drew paper and pencil out of his pocket. He scrawled something on it and handed it to her. "Here's his name and address. He'll be in the phone book. His office is in The Loop." He turned to go. "I've got to get back to rehearsing. I'm due on soon. If you'll excuse me…" he moved away.

"Will you call me, Frankie, or shall I call you? Do you think I'm terrible?"

Frankie frowned. Ignoring the first question, he answered the second. "Let's just say I didn't know you had it in you." He turned abruptly and walked into the auditorium.

Linda stood rooted to the spat. I've got to tell him not to say anything, she thought. I don't want it blurted all over town. Doesn't he know I have no alternative?

She walked slowly through the darkened auditorium, half turning to watch a scene on stage. Frankie was sitting with a man on the aisle. He ignored her as she walked by.

That hurt.

Linda went immediately to the bus station and took the next Chicago bus out. The journey took longer than she expected. It was not a direct route. The bus meandered in and out of every town between Livermore and Chicago. She saw more corn and alfalfa fields than she'd ever seen in her life.

At last the road widened into a four-lane, then an eight-lane highway. Smokestacks and tall buildings appeared everywhere.

Soon they were in the midst of a huge traffic jam, and, as suddenly, out again. Ten minutes later, the bus pulled into the terminal.

Linda dismounted, nearly overpowered by the mingled odor of gas fumes, rubber and, air conditioning – that peculiar odor known only to buses.

She found her way to the restroom and made up. She checked her watch. It was mid-afternoon. She made her way back through the waiting room, through the throngs of people, the mothers with their children, the prying eyes of the men, the suspicious characters, white and black, who always seemed to be drawn to bus stations, like moths around bulbs.

She spotted telephones in one corner and made her way across the huge room, zigzagging to avoid people and their banging suitcases. She hurriedly looked up the producer's name in the phone book.

Linda was nervous. She'd done nothing quite like this before. She didn't even know if she would make it home that night. She hoped so. When she got the rich man on the phone, she would have to be quick and to the point.

She dialed Jim Forbes' office. A mastery answered. "Whom shall I say is calling, please?"

"Just… just tell him a female friend. A woman friend," she corrected herself.

A thick deep male voice came on the phone suddenly. He must have picked up at the same time the secretary did. "Yes? Hang up."

The receiver clicked. "It's okay," came Mr. Forbes' voice. "Now, who am I speaking with?"

"Mr. Forbes, this is Linda Carney. I'm acquainted with Frankie."

"Yes, dear. Yes, Linda." His voice was immediately friendly. "What can I do for you? How is Frankie?"

She paused. She'd forgotten what she was going to say. "Oh, fine, he's just fine. A really nice guy. Mr. Forbes, can you meet me for a drink?" Perhaps he would get the idea subtly.

"Well, I had an appointment, but perhaps I can break it. Is it, well, urgent?"

"Yes, sir, it is." Linda's anxiety broke through in her voice. She breathed more freely now. "It's very important."

"Tell you what. Where are you?"

"I'm at the bus depot."

There was a silence. "I see. Yes, if you'll take a cab… never mind, just walk two blocks north and four blocks east, you'll be near – tell you what, it's easier if I pick you up. I'll stop by in a cab and get you. Can you be at the information counter at four?"

"Oh, yes, yes." She wheeled and searched the massive room for the information sign. "Yes, I see it. How will I know you?"

"How will I know you?" came the response. "I'd like to hear you describe yourself."

"Oh, yes, well, I'm, uh, blond, I have long blond hair. I'm wearing a green dress and carrying a brown alligator bag."

"Are you pretty?"

"Y-yes, yes, I think so."

"Slim?"

"Yes." She didn't know if she liked all this questioning. It was as if she were going to the Chicago meat market. Why didn't he have her come to his office? That would have been more exciting. Well, call girls were a kind of meat market, weren't they? That's what everyone said. She thought she'd read that in Time once.

"You'll do," Jim Forbes said.

"I beg your pardon," said Linda. It made her angry. How does he know what I want, she thought. I'll do? For what?

"See you, kid," said the producer and the receiver clicked.

Linda stared into the dial. She hung up. She turned, felt all male eyes upon her as she looked for and found a seat in the long lines of benches.

She wished she had a newspaper to hide her face. Sitting there, she was both nervous and depressed. Think only of the money, she kept telling herself. It's only for money. And sex is more fun than an office any day. Refreshing. Regenerating. My girl friends come home zonked from work. Not me.

She was trying to prepare herself for the encounter. She looked up at the big clock. A quarter to four. A man across the way winked as her gaze grazed his face. She felt her stomach turn over. He was fat with little insect eyes. His hand was in his crotch.

She couldn't help but feel a slight turn-on in the despite of her cunt, but the feeling repulsed her. She wouldn't do a dirty old man in a filthy bus station to turn her on. Still, she couldn't deny the feeling.

She wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but he was sure to come over then and want to suck on it. She ignored him.