Ron Taylor: Wife on call

"Come on," she said, toying with his dong. She felt the slightest stirring of life in his tool and she looked up, surprise written all over her face. Pleasant surprise. But they didn't have time. He was floor supervisor. He couldn't afford to be late far work.

Kerry's cock seemed to understand. The momentary spurt of energy fizzled out and he was limp in her fingers-wet and appreciably thick, but limp all the same. "To the shower," she commanded, slapping his rump. "Separate shower, preferably. Unless you'd rather make good on your words and skip breakfast? I thought not. Go ahead. I'll hop to the kitchen and scramble your eggs for you."

He caught her by the hand, pulled her back for a kiss. His hand shot into her crotch and he delved in her sticky wet cunny with a skilled, experienced thumb. "Mmm," she said, "I think you've already scrambled my eggs for me, baby." He withdrew his thumb and sniffed it. "Not bad," Kerry went on. "Hey, why don't you put this on my eggs instead of ketchup?"

When he came out, she had his lunch packed and was just setting out the eggs, bacon, toast and tea. Kerry was dressed in his work clothes but as he walked by the stove he made a not-too-subtle grab for Pam's ass, and she wandered what kind of work he'd rather do this morning. He always seemed to get really horny about the middle of the week, and this was Wednesday morning. Twice last night before going to sleep, again when they'd both awakened to go to the bathroom at the same time and it seemed too good a chance to waste, and again this morning.

"Knock it off, stud," she advised in a mock-tough voice. "You can't afford to miss a day's pay, the way prices keep going up at the supermarket. And if you raise that thing for me again, I won't let you go before nightfall."

"Promise or threat?"

She sat down at the table with him, felt his knees bump her under the table. Their eyes met, and she saw the lust in his. God, it never seemed to go away, that look of lust! She grinned, then stirred sugar into her tea.

"One of the brass from New York is coming down this week," he said. "Today or tomorrow. Mr. Sheppard has warned me to be on my toes. I may get that promotion."

"Oh, fantastic!" she enthused. "I mean, it isn't as if you deserve it or anything. You've already shown the Company how to save three-quarters of a million a year! Do you really think they'd move you up to managerial?"

He shrugged. "It would be nice. I could trade in the work clothes for a Brooks Brothers suit, and we could maybe get the house paid before 1989. Even so, we're not hurting. Are we?"

"Not as long as we have each other."

"That's my girl." He felt her leg under the table, and Pam's cunt began to moisten. She felt her breath coming in short husky gasps as his fingers lifted the hem of her nightie and slid up her thigh, and she pulled her chair back. "Sorry," he apologized. "Hey, I'd better get moving."

She stood in the doorway, watching till his car turned at the end of the block, and then she went back inside, closing the door behind her. And, as she'd been doing three mornings a week for the past three months, she went to the telephone and dialed a number.

"Good morning," said a crisp female voice. "Logan Answering Service."

Pam Wilson said, "This is Patricia Wright. Have there been any messages for me?"

A moment of silence. "Yes. A Mr. Charles would like to meet you for an early lunch. Eleven o'clock, at the usual place. He has another appointment for twelve. A Mr. Ford wants to see you at one o'clock. The Capri. And a Mr. Webber wishes to make an appointment for two-thirty, at the usual place. Do you wish to leave any messages, Ms. Wright?"

Pam thought a moment. It would be rushing a little, but probably no trouble. "No. It's okay. Thank you very much." She hung up. It was going on nine. She'd better haul ass and make herself beautiful for that lunch date.

All of them were old friends… Mr. Ford, Mr. Charles and Mr. Webber. At least she wouldn't have to be breaking in a stranger today. She knew what to expect with each of them, and she could handle it with ease.

She turned on the shower and removed her nightie, her body already aglow with the anticipation of the day. "Hot damn," she said, stepping into the shower cabinet, "Patti Wright strikes again!"

Pamela Wilson stepped into the shower, but the pink, scrubbed body that emerged belonged to someone else altogether, someone who liked to be called Patricia Wright. In some ways, she thought, I'm like a Mrs. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. She stood on the bath mat, rubbing herself dry with a soft, fluffy monogrammed towel, and then she walked to the full-length mirror.

She liked what she saw. She always liked what she saw in her mirror. Pam Wilson – Patti Wright – the same beautiful woman, no matter which name she was using.

Very tall – five-nine in her bare feet, with a full, flowing mane of lustrous dark hair. Wideset, sparkling eyes, small chin, generous mouth that revealed gleaming ivory teeth when she smiled. Cream-colored skin that was too delicate to burn leathery in the sun come summertime. A generous figure, constructed on the lines of 38C-24-37, the hips just a shade narrow for her tits but a stunningly crafted piece of work indeed. Pam cupped her tits from beneath and lifted gently. Her breasts were large and full, but at twenty-six they hadn't begun to sag at all yet, and she was more grateful than words could express.

The nipples were enormous, large pink circles surrounded by a tracery of blue veins, and the tips of her nipples extended almost an inch when they were aroused. Pam rubbed those tips with her fingers until her nipples were aroused, and she was delighted to see that they still extended almost an inch. She squeezed her tits from beneath, squeezed until the nipples throbbed and tinged, and then she ran her hands down her smooth-skinned, slightly convex stomach, onto her pelvic bones. The tips of her fingers laced through the tangle of dark, matted-wet pubic hair that fleeced Pam's cunt, and she pressed down, tickling the lips of her gash.

She was wet, her hair fallen in soaked strands around her face, and she wasn't wearing any makeup, but she knew that she looked good, and Pamela was pleased with the knowledge. She held her breath a moment, saw the pink flush spread over her face. Mmmmm! She gave her shower-wet pussy one last caress, then hurried into the bedroom to begin putting on her face. If she was to meet Mr. Charles at eleven, she'd have to hurry. Pam sat down at her vanity table and began to apply mascara to her eyes. In a little more than an hour and a half she'd be in a man's hotel room, renting that man the use of her body for his sexual pleasure.

It was strange, in a way. She'd never considered herself a promiscuous person – not as modem morals went. And she didn't feel the slightest dissatisfaction with her life as Mrs. Kerry Wilson, wife of a man who loved her very much, who catered to her slightest whims, who had never during their two and a half years of marriage relented in his sexual desire for her body or his love for her.

He wasn't her first man, of course. He'd never asked her for details about her previous sexual experiences, because to him it didn't matter. And she wasn't his first woman, either, not by a long shot. That didn't matter. She and Kerry clicked together and, almost from the moment she met the man Pam had known that someday he would be hers.

Pam was from a small town in the north-central part of the state. Her father was a foreman in the mines and she was one of four children – two brothers and a sister – all of them younger. She grew up much like any other girl of her generation – puberty at eleven, and it was embarrassing at first, because of the changes in her body that seemed to smack her all at once.