You and I are going to have a tragic and lust drunk affair.
I smell your pussy on my fingers when I’m eating my wife’s cookies. When I fuck her later it’s your orgasm face I think of, and I start to come and my wife starts to come. I’m constantly thinking about you. I’ve been jerking off in the bathroom before I go to the office.
At the conference in Las Vegas I introduce you to people as my wife. They ask how we met and I listen to you make up lies and charm them. A tipsy sales rep from Chicago hits on you. When you walk off toward the lady’s room he watches your ass swing, then says to me, “Is that really your wife?” I say no. “I knew it.” I say you’re actually a high-priced escort. “How much?” he says. I say he doesn’t want to know, hell I won’t even know until I get the bill. It depends on what I want off the menu tonight. When I tell you this story later you say, “Well what do you want off the menu tonight?” I can’t tell if you’re angry or amused. “Well?” you say. I ask what’s on the menu. You take out your lipstick and write on the mirror: Blow job: $600 Straight fuck: $800 Anal: $20 I ask if that’s a mistake. You shake your head while you look at yourself in the mirror and paint your lips red. I look in my wallet and all I have left is $42. I toss a twenty on the dresser.
“All I can afford,” I say.
You’re on your knees on the bed and I’m fucking you in the ass and we’re watching ourselves in the mirror with the menu scrawled across our reflections.
You’ll do things my wife won’t but that’s not why I like being with you.
We meet at a motel out at the beach. You bring a bottle of whiskey. You do a strip tease for me while I drink and take pictures.
“Did your wife ever do this for you?” you ask.
“How about this?” You sit up on the dresser, spread your legs, and masturbate for me to watch.
You stand next to me and push your breasts into my face with your hands smelling of your pussy. You jerk me off and I watch us in the mirror. After I come, you lick my cock and your fingers clean. You don’t miss a drop. “How about that?” you ask.
“Of course,” I say, but this time it’s not true.
You’re ten years younger than my wife is but that’s also not why I like being with you.
One night I accidentally call you by my wife’s name: “Slow down, ________.” I stop and apologize. You say “Shhh” and keep fucking me. You move your hips fast and hard and I come inside you. Afterward you say, “Is that the way you look at your wife when you come?”
You arrive at the New Orleans conference with your hair bleached and your makeup done differently and you’re wearing a red dress and black heels that make you look startlingly like my wife did in a number of older photos.
“You look different,” I say.
“My husband bought me this dress,” you say. “So, ___.” Not my name. “How was your flight?”
In the bar you make small talk. You keep calling me ___. You keep checking your watch. “___, I need to call my husband. I’ll come to your room afterward.”
I hand you the key card. When you arrive twenty minutes later, you say, “Sorry. If I don’t call when I land, _______ gets antsy.” My name this time. So you’ve observed my habit of taking phone calls from my wife when she’s also traveling for work. I always step out of the room but I guess it’s obvious. Less obvious is how you chose this red dress, how you knew I bought it for her.
I watch you bend over to adjust the strap on your shoe and the black nylon over your painted toenails. The hem of your dress rides up. I think you hiked it a little to give me a peek of your stocking tops. You have a rounder, tighter bottom than my wife. Smaller, firmer breasts. (I always remember you at our house at brunch the day we met, having arrived still damp from your yoga class.) You stand up and adjust the silk to hide the black lace fringe of your bra. “_______ likes me in this dress.” My name.
“I can see why,” I tell you.
“You don’t think it’s a little tarty?” You rotate your hips and make the hem flare.
“A little, maybe,” I say.
“You think my husband likes me looking a little tarty?”
“Could be,” I say.
“You think my husband thinks about other men looking at me like you’re looking at me?”
“I imagine he must. You’re a very sexy woman.”
“Do you think he enjoys it when other men see me dressed like this?”
“Probably,” I say. “He probably wants them to admire his wife.”
You stand facing me, your back to the mirror, and you hike the skirt higher behind you so that in the mirror I can see the bottoms of your bare, stocking-framed buttocks. Are you not wearing panties? There’s a small bruise on your left thigh. I wonder where it came from.
“Sure,” you say. “But I mean, it doesn’t just look sexy. It’s a little slutty, isn’t it? This dress is a little too short and a little too low-cut.” You press your breasts inward with your arms, and your cleavage plumps upward. “You know what I think? I think my husband wants me on display. He wants other men to think about what it would be like to have me.”
I shrug but I feel a little tightness in my throat. It occurs to me that this thought has been there in the back of my mind. You’re looking at me intently. You also know the thought is there.
“It’s like he’s whoring me out a little bit, right? I mean not actually whoring me out. But the hint of it is there. This is my wife. My private whore.”
“Private?” I say. I raise my eyebrows.
You raise your eyebrows back. “Well, here I am. So maybe not so private tonight. You’re not just going to look at me. You’re not going to just think about it. Are you?”
I shake my head. I feel myself getting hard.
“Do you think my husband imagines this?” you ask. “His wife in a hotel room with a stranger.”
“Maybe not,” I say.
But now your trick has worked. My imagination is rolling ahead, and not on what I’m going to do to you. I’m thinking about my wife doing those things to another man.
You’ve gotten down on your knees. You’re petting the bulge in my slacks. You press your nose into my crotch and smell me.
“I want you to do something my husband won’t. Will you do that?”
“How would you like to be used?”
“Like you own me.”
.... There is more of this story ...