My Wife, The Escort (extract)

My hands were shaking. I could barely get the keycard into the door. At last, the light flashed green and I almost fell inside, heading straight for the closet. I glanced at the bed as I passed. God, that's where she'd lie. She'd lie there naked, stretched out for him—

I took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped into the closet, pulling the doors shut behind me. Inside, it was almost pitch black, which meant that there was no way anyone would be able to see me.

Seconds passed. I tried to control my breathing. If the guy heard me it would all be over.

I wish I'd gone to the bathroom. Do I have time? Maybe if I just run to—No, too risky.

And then I heard voices in the corridor and all thoughts ceased.

The metallic click of the door lock disengaging. The door swung open and Harriet stepped inside.

Alone.

I let out a long sigh. She'd chickened out. Part of me was disappointed, part relieved. I put my hand out to open the closet door—

Harriet glanced quickly around, including a look right at the closet. I froze. She wasn't alone. She was just checking the coast was clear.

The guy stepped in behind her.

I went absolutely still. I hadn't known it was possible for a person to make so little noise. I think I even stopped breathing.

The guy closed the door behind him. Harriet walked on across the room, nervously twisting her hands together.

He was maybe three feet in front of my face, with just the closet door separating us. He seemed bigger, now. Not a huge guy but an inch or two taller than me and his confidence made him seem bigger still. Maybe it was because Harriet and I were both so nervous; he was definitely the one most in control. He pulled a billfold from his pocket—a thick sheaf of hundreds—and began silently counting them out.

Harriet fiddled with the iPod dock. We'd talked about music in advance, even set up a playlist, so it should only have taken her a second. But her hands were as shaky and clumsy as mine had been with the key. By the time a soft R&B track filled the room, the man was done with the money. Harriet turned around to see him holding out a wad of notes. She drew in her breath at the sight of them.

"One thousand. That's right...right?" His accent sounded like cultured New York—a Harvard man, maybe. I could get a better look at his suit, now, and it looked like it cost a hell of a lot more than mine.

Harriet nodded dumbly and took the money. I drew in a tiny gasp as she drew the notes from his fingers and pushed them into her purse. That was it. She'd taken his money. For the next few hours, he owned her.

It was as if a switch had been thrown. Before she'd even turned around from putting her purse on the counter, he'd slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, her back against his chest. She gulped and I saw her eyes flick, just for an instant, to the closet.

"Do you kiss?" he asked. He put his other hand on her arm and then ran it lightly up to her shoulder, tracing her neck and smoothing over her chin.

We hadn't talked about that. I vaguely remembered something about real prostitutes not kissing, because it was too intimate, too personal. That had never made sense to me—how can kissing be more intimate than sex?

It was too late to debate it now. Harriet nodded. The man smiled. And suddenly, he was lifting her chin, bringing his mouth down on hers.

It was like someone had punched me in the chest. The sight of her soft, red-painted lips crushed beneath his...I suddenly understood the rule real prostitutes have. This was something we did every day, something shared between man and wife and now....

Now her mouth was his.

I saw his cheeks begin to work and then hers, too. She was opening up to him—God, he had his tongue in her mouth! They twisted and moved, breaking and kissing again. I was so close that I could hear the sound of their lips meeting, the soft gasps as my wife panted between kisses. She's mine! I wanted to smash my way out of the closet and wrestle the guy to the ground. She's mine! You shouldn't be kissing her!

But she wasn't mine anymore. He'd bought her. And the thought made a dark heat pulse and throb in me, my cock hardening.

The hand that was on her waist was rubbing in slow circles now—almost a calming motion, as if he didn't want to startle her. But he was working his way up her body, over her trim, flat stomach to just beneath her breasts. He paused there for a moment, still circling, as if savoring the moment.

And then he cupped one breast and squeezed.

I saw her gasp and groan a little through the kiss and one of her hands came up to grab his wrist. It looked instinctual—he can't do that! Or maybe, I can't let him do that! I'm married! But then she overrode her instincts and let her hand drop back to her side. And he began to rub her breast, lifting and squeezing the soft flesh, almost easing it clear of the dress's neckline.

Harriet was leaning back against him, now. God, she looked amazing. The high heels and her slightly bent legs made every firm curve of her calves and thighs gleam in the stockings. The dress clung to her hips, the split revealing a long, tempting length of upper thigh. It wasn't super-tight on her ass but, as I watched, the guy slid his other hand down and smoothed the fabric over her ass cheek, revealing its shape. Higher up, her pale breasts were bulging provocatively from the neckline of her dress as the guy squeezed them. She had her eyes closed and her lips were slightly parted as he kissed his way down her neck to her collarbone. She was shaking her head just a little, maybe subconsciously, her long hair tossing. Her cheeks were just slightly flushed with pleasure.

She'd never looked so beautiful. I was getting to see her in a way few other men ever see their wives. I was able to stand back and see just how gorgeous she looked when she was turned on.

He started to drag her dress up her thighs. Thanks to her stockings and the loose hem, it rose easily. He had one finger hooked into the slit at the side and, as it rose higher, his finger glided up over her stockings and onto pale, bare skin. I saw her react to that, her whole body jerking. But he was kissing her again, his mouth hungrily working hers, and I could tell from the low groans she made that his tongue was plunging deep. And though she jerked against him, she pressed right back against him again, her back to his chest, her ass to his groin.

He used both hands now and hauled the dress up higher. Her stocking tops appeared and then pale, creamy thigh and finally the black lace edging of her panties.

She finally broke the kiss, practically having to tear her mouth away from his. She swallowed. "I—" She shook her head, but not in a no way. More as if she was trying to clear it. "I—"

He didn't argue with her or try to kiss her again. He just hoisted her dress a little higher, so that the front of her panties was exposed. Then he pressed one leg between hers to open them a little and, as he did, he turned her towards me.

I'd been looking at them from the side. Now, by chance, I could see her from the front for a moment. I drank in every heave of her chest, every toss of her hair. One of his hands held her dress up while the other dipped beneath it. He pressed three fingers together and—I caught my breath—he began to rub her through her panties. She let out a high little cry of surprise, but didn't try to stop him. I stared at his fingers as they slid up and down over the smooth fabric, pressing inward a little. Jesus, he's got his hand on my wife's pussy!

She started to grind her hips, her ass rubbing against his crotch. Her eyes had opened as soon as he'd touched her there and she was staring right at the closet—right at me. Her expression was a delicious mixture of shock and arousal. Disbelief that she was doing this and that I was letting her.

He kissed her ear and licked her there. Then he spoke, his voice low and thick with arousal, and it was just loud enough for me to hear him. "You like that, don't you?"

She nodded softly. A sudden stab of jealousy shot through me.

"You want me to fuck you, don't you?"

She swallowed and ground against him for another moment as if stalling for time. But then she nodded.

"Say it. I want to hear you say it."

"I want you to fuck me." Her voice was a shock. I'd never heard it so low, so full of need.

He rubbed her for another second and then pushed her away, turning her at the same time. "Take off the dress," he said.

She staggered a little in her heels and I heard her give a disappointed little groan. She'd been getting close, hoping to come. But he was going to make her wait—if she got to come at all. She was meant to be an escort, after all. It was all about his pleasure.

She came to a stop with her back to me, blocking most of the man from my view. She reached back and unzipped the back of her dress, then lifted it off over her head and dropped it to the floor. In her black underwear, stockings and heels, she was breathtaking. Her pale ass was towards me, perfectly displayed in the lace-edged panties. Her elegant back led my eyes up to the black line of her bra strap and the toned, smooth flesh of her shoulders, caressed by all that soft blonde hair.

"Get on the bed," the man said. "In fact...stand on the bed. I want to look at you."

Harriet put one knee onto the bed—which made her ass look absolutely amazing—and then clambered shakily to her feet. It wasn't easy, in the high heels and on a soft surface, but she managed it.

"Good. Now open your legs. Lift your hair up."

I watched as my wife stepped her legs apart, bracing them in a wide vee like a pin-up model. She swept her long hair up away from her neck, revealing its pale elegance. She even pouted a little.

The guy was grinning up at her. It was almost as if he was taking photos—and I think he was, in a way. He was filing away every detail of her in his mind. Long after tonight was over, he'd be jerking off to the memories of my wife. The thought made me even harder.

Then he took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. His tie followed. "Take off the panties," he told her. "You can leave the rest on."