Ron Taylor: Wife on call

She found out.

It was the afternoon a few months ago when she and Julia Cameron were supposed to meet for lunch and an afternoon's shopping in the city. Julia was an old friend from Pam's last job, married now too, and living with her husband and baby in a suburban home on the far side of the city from the bedroom community where Pam and Kerry and the bank shared ownership of a darling house. It had been too long since she'd seen Julia; there were a million things to talk about, a million new stores to investigate.

They were to meet for lunch at the Hartford House, one of the city's better-known hotels, and Pam arrived shortly after eleven, a little early. Eleven-thirty came and went, and there was no sign of Julia. Pam had a salad and then, after the lunch crowd thinned, called her friend. No answer. Shaking her head, Pam went into the cocktail lounge. A drink might help her pass the time. She ordered a sweet vermouth on ice, drank it, had another. The lounge was almost empty this time of day. The bartender tried to make small talk but she didn't feel like chatting. As she sipped her wine, Pam kept looking round, expecting to see Julia at, any moment.

"Excuse me," a voice said behind her, "is this seat taken?"

She turned around. A man was standing there. Apparently he'd just come in, while she was stirring the ice in her drink with a swizzle stick. Well-dressed, maybe thirty-five or so, graying at the temples, rather distinguished-looking, she thought. Probably a businessman in town for – what else? – some kind of business. Pam looked down the row of stools. The only one occupied was the stool one which her perky ass was planted. She smiled. It was a very old ploy.

"Sure," she smiled. "Have a seat."

"I wonder," the man said, "if anyone's told Lynda Carter how much she looks like you." Pam frowned. Lynda Carter? Oh, sure! WONDER WOMAN, on the tube! The lady whose program Kerry never missed ("One of these nights," he'd say, "her boobs are gonna pop right out of that sexy costume, and I don't intend to miss it!"). Well, maybe there was a slight resemblance. Same dark hair, nicely-cute faces, excellent bodies. And it was a fairly original come-on. At least he didn't say, "You look very much like, etc."

His name was Richard Mason and he was from Cincinnati, here on business, just as she'd guessed. He bought her a drink and they chatted, and just about the time Pam decided Julia wasn't going to arrive and she'd better be on her way, Richard put his hand on her knee, leaned close, and said, "I would guess you for a cool hundred. Mmmm?"

It took her a moment to figure out what he meant. Oh, my God! Pam thought. He thinks I'm a hooker!

"Shall we?" Richard went on, giving her knee a little squeeze.

Pam shivered, and he must have felt that shiver run through her leg. He leaned closer still and kissed her on the ear. Where her hair was pulled back, and she could smell expensive after-shave, the hint of tobacco, and the general aroma of a handsome, attractive man in prime physical condition. "My room is upstairs," he whispered, tongue dabbing at her ear.

An elegant whore, she thought. He thinks I'm an elegant whore. He wants to give me a hundred dollars for a piece of my ass! She moved her head around, slid her leg out of his grasp. For a moment she was prepared to slap him in the face and tell him that she was a respectable married woman.

But she didn't. A whore, she thought. An elegant whore. Worth a cool hundred. Oh, Julia, she thought, if you don't come walking through the door right now, I think I'm going to-to… And then she looked round again, smiling.

"Does the desk clerk mind if we go up together, or would you rather have me come up by myself?"

She gave him his money's worth, stripping the clothes from her long, well-stacked body, rolling naked on his hotel bed as she waited for him to join her. "Mmmm, you've got a big one," she said with unfeigned enthusiasm as he dropped his shorts to reveal his erection. "Mind if I give it the taste test?"

He didn't mind. When she took his cock into her mouth he grabbed her head and tried to fuck bloody hell out of her throat. Pam sucked and tongued and rocked and rolled with his thrusting, gobbling up all he could give her, cheeks suctioned in tightly, pulling, dragging on the hard barrel of his rod as if she meant to suck him dry.

"Enough," he panted, fighting his pecker free. "I'm going to waste it if you keep on sucking that way."

"Waste?" she said, licking her lips. "It wouldn't be wasted. Not in my hungry mouth, darling. My grandmother was a barracuda. Or could you tell?" She lay back, fluffing her long dark hair, fingers twining through it, and her tits heaved excitingly as she awaited him on the bed. Her legs parted and the red slice of her twat showed among the dark curls of pubic fur. Richard looked at her pussy and she saw his eyes gleaming with lust. "Fuck me now," she told him. "Climb on me and fill me with your big hard cock. I want you to shoot your cum so far up my pussy that it runs out my can."

The words seemed to excite him. She knew that Kerry loved to hear her talk trash – KERRY!! Oh, Jesus! Pam's heart thudded in her breast and she thought it was going to stop. What would Kerry think if he could see her now, his darling wife, stretched on a bed, begging a stranger to give her the meat?

She'd been faithful to him since the marriage, just as he'd been faithful to her. And now she was on the verge of committing adultery – for money, no less! A hundred dollars, already tucked away in her purse. For a moment she felt sick and ashamed. For a moment she was on the verge of screaming, of telling Richard Mason it was all a terrible mistake, she wasn't the prostitute he'd taken her to be, she was just a simple suburban housewife who'd – who'd – who'd already sucked his cock like a hungry animal, who was reaching down to fig her own exposed cunt, making herself wetter, hotter, more ready to accept him when he shoved her full of that large, suckable, very fuckable tool of his! Pam swallowed her fear the same way she'd swallowed his dong and she said, "What, are you waiting for? Screw me. I'm yours. All yours."

And then he was upon her, lifting her legs as he guided his tool into her slit, and the backs of her calves came to rest against his shoulders and they strained together, Richard fucking into Pam, Pam fucking back at Richard with all her might and all her pussy too. "Jesus," she moaned, "give it to me! Fill me up!"

He could do it. He was long enough to stab deeply, but not so thick that her pussy ached with taking him inside. She began to hump and buck at him, cunt wobbling around his pecker, and she was sighing heavily, her nipples stiff and swollen. Moisture seeped from the parted lips of Pam's gash and that moisture made it easy for Richard to slide even deeper. Not as deep as Kerry could take her with his eight-inch dong, certainly, but deeply enough to let Pam Wilson know that she was being fucked and fucked well. He acted like a ferocious tiger, cramming her with his dick, and he had the right. After all, he'd given her a hundred dollars for the privilege, paid it over without a quibble or a haggle, and he was as excited by the thought of fucking her she'd been by the act of receiving his money.

"Harder, deeper," she commanded, rising to meet him, fucking with the same enthusiasm she gave Kerry in their marriage bed. Her pussy was alive with stimulation, the labia all swollen and sopping wet around him, fisted like a fleshy ring on the gristly bone of his dick, and she fucked furiously, trying to find something in her life with which this could be compared.

There was nothing. Not her bed-hopping of the premarital days, not even some of those wild dope-and-sex parties. The idea that she could give herself to a stranger for money was totally unlike anything in Pam Wilson's experience and she was thrilled with the knowledge, with the additional insight she'd pined on her own character.