Garfield and Jennifer Kline


Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Cheating, Cuckold, Slow, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: She's a secret Prostie, and her best friend outs her.

We met in a bar. Where else? The Castellano serves real Spanish cuisine and very good whiskey. That Jennifer Randolph was cruising the boulevard and looking for something or someone was obvious: her glance was everywhere. I was dateless, into my second round, and I decided to gamble and offer my services.

"Miss, would I be out of line to offer to buy you a drink?" I said. She looked me up and down. And, apparently, decided that I wasn't a total loser.

She took another look around, turned back to me, and smiled. "All right," she said, offering me her hand to shake. "I'm Jennifer Randolph. My date is apparently a no show."

"Garfield Kline," I said, as I pumped her hand. "And, I'm glad your date didn't show up." She smirked.

"Travis," I said, signaling my favorite barkeep. Travis was only twenty-four, but he had a head on his shoulders and he was good at what he did. "Whatever the lady is having." Travis gave me a look I couldn't read, walked a few feet down the bar, pulled out a bottle of wine and poured a drink for my new girlfriend; for that is exactly how I was seeing her: talk about love at first sight. Anyway, a man can dream.

"We know each other," she said, nodding toward Travis and thereby explaining why Travis had not asked what the lady was having; he clearly already knew. I nodded my understanding, and our love affair was launched.

And it was love; it was for me at any rate. Yeah, and likewise love damn near at first sight. She was sexy and tall and slim and redheaded and possessed of the cutest freckles; and, she smelled fantastic. I would have done practically anything for her just to be rewarded with a smile.

That first night we danced, and she molded herself to me. And me, being a bit shorter than she was, didn't bother me in the least. I figured she was maybe five-nine to my five-seven, but I liked having my face close to her titties while we danced. And my face was close to her titties because she was wearing what I estimated were four-inch heels. She smiled down at me, and I thought I detected a smirk as we toured the dance floor. Song done, we headed back to a table away from the bandstand. I wanted to be able to talk to her.

I seated us next to each other. I noticed a couple of guys kinda watching us, but I paid them no mind; I was otherwise occupied. She giggled. I smiled.

"And you're giggling why?" I said, trying to decide if she were laughing at me, or just enjoying the moment. Her expression seemed to say that she thought I was a doofus; but, if that is what she thought, she was wrong. I was feeling goofy all right, but I was no dumbo.

"You're not bothered by the fact that I'm so much taller than you are, are you?" she said. "I mean most short guys won't ask me to dance like you did. You intrigue me."

"Bothered? Not a t all. You're so pretty your height doesn't even enter into it as far as I'm concerned. I had to try and get you to dance with me. If you'd turned me down; well, I've been turned down before and survived it. Plus, I really do know how to dance. So again, no," I said. "Oh, and short? I was turned down when I applied to be a jockey; they said I was too tall. Can't seem please anybody." She laughed.

"And a sense of humor. Hmm, Yes, you are quite a dancer; and, I do like a man who is confident in his manhood. And therefore, before you ask, of course I will go out with you next Saturday. What time?" she said. Now, I laughed.

"You can read minds can you?" I said.

"Of course! I'm a woman. I know everything a man is thinking even before he thinks it," she said.

"Well, you were wrong this time," I said. Her face showed surprise—no—disappointment.

"Oh, okay—I'm—I'm sorry—I just..."she started.

"No, I was thinking Friday night, not Saturday. But, Saturday's okay. Sevenish good for you?" I said. She smiled brightly.

"Sure. Seven is fine. Good," she said. I think I'd momentarily shaken her confidence—point for me.

I picked her up at 6:50. She seemed mildly surprised by my eagerness, and I was eager.

Our first date began with dinner at The Scorcher and then dancing at the Hacienda. We finished with a night of wild ass sex. And sexually, we'd done it all, which included me fucking her three times and draining myself dry. We lay on her apartment's front room carpet staring up at the ceiling.

"Was it good for you?" she said.

"Is that a serious question?" I said, still not quite breathing steadily.

"Me too," she said. "You're pretty good for a little guy. You can call me again. I mean if you want." I wasn't quite sure about her little guy comment. Was she referring to my five-inch cock or my five-seven height? I didn't ask.

"Oh, I do want," I said. "I most certainly do want." She turned her head to face me. I thought I detected a sense of something in her look.

"I hope I don't disappoint you, mister Kline. You're different, a lot different than a lot of the men I've known. And, never doubt it, mister Kline; I've known a lot of men. That said, I do think you're interesting, and I would like to get to know you better—perhaps a lot better."

"I can assure you, Miss Randolph, that mister Kline wants to get to know you better too. Oh yes, much better," I said. She smiled: it was the same enigmatic smile she'd tendered me moments before. The woman was going to be something of a mystery to plumb of that I was certain.

Miss Randolph and mister Kline did date again, and six months into the relationship found themselves in Amarillo, Texas, in front of s justice of the peace and two strangers—witnesses.

In the months before Jennifer and I married, we got to know each other well. Well, that is, that's what I thought; it would be many years before I learned just how erroneous my thinking had been. But, things did go mostly well for us in those early years.

Jennifer had been nervous about telling me about her past. I guessed, and rightly as it later turned out, that it had something to do with the men she'd known and had alluded to on our very first date. At any rate, when she started in with her true confessions, I'd interrupted her.

"Jennifer, do you love me?" I said.

"Yes, of course, but..."

"Then, the men you've known before we met mean nothing to me. And, yes, I know how complicated some of those kinds of things can be. But, unless there is some physical danger to us attached to your history, you know, that I should be made aware of; well then, let sleeping dogs lie. What I don't know won't hurt me. And, we are starting new lives together," I said, "and that's all I care about. I mean our future. Okay?"

She sighed and shrugged. "Okay," she said. "And no there is no danger to us." I smiled.

"Good!" I said. "Now, let's get on with the business of building happy lives."

"You betcha! dear man," she said.

And we did get on with the business of life. We were both thirty years old. I worked for Rosten Investments. We sold real properties, mostly commercial, and business for us was booming. Jenn, worked at Rosa's Beauty Station. She and her cohorts ensured that senior, and mostly rich, ladies looked their best, and that for truly big dollars. Jenn often annually out-earned me, And, I was in the low six figures most years. It always surprised me how much some people were willing to lay out for the sake of vanity. But, was I complaining? Not on your life!

The next nine years were fantastic as far as I was concerned. And, I was sure that they were for her too. It was one of those unions where the couple turned out to be actual soulmates; or, so I thought.

Jennifer was a sex goddess. There wasn't anything I could come up with that she wasn't willing to try. Indeed, some of the things that she came up with gave me pause. No matter how far out the fantasy; she was up for it.

I was thirty-nine years old and sitting in the Castellano with a near empty sixteen ounce Red Horse (San Miguel ale) in front of me. I'd come to love that particular Philippine staple. I'd just signaled Travis to deliver me a refill when an attractive, dark haired, woman, probably Latino, took the stool next to mine.

"Hello, Mr. Kline," she said. I looked her up and down.

"Do I know you?" I said.

"Alas, no," she said. "But, I know you, well, of you. I also know your wife. The name's Kimble, Diane Kimble." I nodded my understanding.

"What can I do for you Ms. Kimble?" I said. Her look was—what—purposeful. I had the feeling that she was no kind of friend, but I wasn't sure. She was pretty and engaging. Women like her would always get the benefit of the doubt, sure as hell from me.

"I have some information for you, Mr. Kline," she said.

"Information?" I said.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Kline, I'm a prostitute. A pretty good one too if I do say so," she said.

I started to laugh. Ms. Kimble, I'm sorry. But, I don't..."

"Do prostitutes? You do them all the time, Mr. Kline," she said. I looked at her and smiled indulgently. I shook my head in the negative.

"No, Ms. Kimble I don't. I..."

"Mr. Kline, your wife's a pro. A dyed in the wool, you better damn well believe it, first class play for pay whore," she said. She was smiling from ear to ear—or was it smirking.

My smile faded fast. "You're not funny, Ms. Kimble, not in the least," I said. She placed a manila envelope on the bar in front of me.

"Among other things my phone number is in there," she said. She slid off of the stool and was gone.

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Story tagged with:
Cheating / Cuckold / Slow /