Good Translator
Copyright© 2026 by RedJohnDoe
Chapter 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2 - It's just a translating job. What could possibly go wrong? Clara Harrow is a proud, classy women and who never uses dirty language. Her newlywed husband, Oliver, wants her to talk to be dirty but She doesn't agree. So he turns to an anonymous counsellor secretly, who suggests a discreet solution: Clara accepts, expecting routine translation work. On her first day, she discovers what the job really involves.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Slut Wife Humiliation Interracial Oral Sex Big Breasts Prostitution
Marisol switched off the last light at six as Clara walked out to her car.
She had the speech ready before she reached the A12. Oliver, sit down. Do you know what you booked me into? She was very good at this. She had won every argument between them, and she planned to win this easily.
Somewhere past Brentwood she started to hear his side of it.
A porn set? So why didn’t you leave?
She’d have to answer that. She’d have to admit that Julien Serra had offered her €500 to compensate her for the inconvenience, and she’d turned him down just to prove she could handle anything on her own.
Oliver would laugh, and he wouldn’t mean anything by it. He’d laugh the way he did when his father beat her at Scrabble, delighted, like he’d finally caught her being human. You said word cock? You?
Her hands tightened on the wheel. She had already been made a fool of once today, and she was not going to sit at her kitchen table and let Oliver do it again.
And if she told him, he’d ask her to quit. If she quit, she’d be the fourth translator to walk out on Julien Serra and she couldn’t bear the thought of looking weak. If she refused, she’d have to explain why she wanted to stay. She didn’t have an answer to that yet.
So she would keep it simple. She’d say it was a production company and she was interpreting for a film crew, for a rich French client with a crude mouth. All of it was true, more or less.
It isn’t lying, she told herself at the lights. I’m just not telling him everything.
Her father, who had sat as a magistrate for thirty years, used to say there was no difference. She turned the radio up.
Oliver opened the door before she got her key out. He had changed his shirt, and the flat smelled of garlic.
“Hey.” He kissed her cheek. He was trying very hard to look casual. “So? How was it?”
“It was all right. Long day.”
“All right?” He followed her down the hall. “That’s all I get? It’s your first day.”
“It’s a production company, Oliver. It’s mostly sitting around while people argue about the lighting.” She hung up her jacket. “The client’s French, and rich, and he swears constantly. So does the crew, in English and Spanish.”
“Yeah?”
He said it a little too quickly. She looked at him. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not smiling. I just want to hear about it.” He was smiling. “Did you get to talk to him much? The client?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Anything.”
“He talked. I translated.” She sniffed. “It was a room full of very rude men. I’m going to have a bath. Is something burning?”
“That’s the garlic. I think it’s meant to go brown.”
Upstairs she locked the bathroom door, and sat on the edge of the bath, thinking for a long time before she turned the taps on.
Downstairs Oliver was singing to himself in the kitchen, the way he did when he was happy.
She ran the bath as hot as she could stand and got in up to her chin. The short version was kinder, she decided. Oliver could cope with the short version.
With her eyes shut she kept seeing the set. The naked bodies weren’t what stayed with her. What stayed was the room going quiet while she said the word. Tomorrow there would be a whole script of words like that. Marisol had said so.
Whatever happened, she was not going to accept defeat tomorrow.
“Cock,”
It sounded ridiculous. She said it again, more confidently. By the fourth time it didn’t sound ridiculous anymore. But she felt that she is getting aroused by saying these filthy words.
Under the water her hand had drifted to the inside of her thigh, but quickly moved up.
She was wet, and it wasn’t the bathShe had always masturbated quickly, in the dark, thinking about nothing in particular. Tonight she was thinking about a word. She touched herself with two fingers, in slow circles, and her breath went short. Her nipples had come up hard where the water didn’t cover them, and when she brushed one with her other hand she felt it all the way down, under her fingers. Her knees fell open against the sides of the bath, and the water slopped over the edge onto the mat. She slid one finger inside herself, and then two, and pressed her heel against the taps. The water rocked against her big breasts as her hand moved faster. She was closer than she had ever been this quickly, and she heard herself make a sound.
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes!” Oliver called up the stairs. She took her hand away, and lay in the cooling water with every part of her still waiting.
“I’m coming,” she called.
She told him about the traffic and few things happened on the set, and he listened as if she were describing the moon landing. She didn’t tell him anything that will raise suspicion.
In bed she lay with her back to him and thought about finishing what she’d started in the tub. She was still aroused, and every time Oliver shifted in his sleep the sheet moved against her nipples. But she didn’t initiate. It seemed important, that night, to be a woman who could stop.
On Tuesday morning Marisol handed her a stapled script, forty pages of Spanish covered in yellow highlighter.
“This is today’s scene,” she said. “It’s all Spanish, and Dean doesn’t speak a word. Go through it with him and Lucía and give them every line in English.” She tapped the page. “And make it sound like something he’d actually say. Okay?”
“Understood.”
“I’m you can do this better than last girl”
“Woman,” said Clara.
Marisol looked at her for a second, then shrugged. “The last woman, then. She didn’t make it to lunch.”
Dean and Lucía were on the sofa, Dean in his boxers again.
Clara found a line. Llevo toda la semana pensando en tu boca.
“‘I have been thinking about your mouth all week.’”
Dean made a face. “Bit soppy, isn’t it?”
“It’s accurate.”
“Nobody’s thinking about his mouth, honey,” said Lucía, eating a grape. “She’s thinking about what he’s going to do with it.”
The Spanish never said that in so many words, but anyone reading it in Bogotá would hear it straight away. Clara had heard it too, and picked the polite version anyway.
She tried again. “‘I’ve been thinking about your mouth on me all week.’”
Dean grinned. “Yeah. That I can say.”
It went like that for an hour. Clara gave them a line, they pushed back, and she tried again until it sounded like a real person. Mírate, estás empapada was not “Look at you, you are very wet.” It ended up as “Look at you. You’re fucking soaked.” Chúpamela was not “Suck it,” It became “Get on your knees.” Lléname la boca mientras me dice que me quiere took longer, because Clara translated llenar as “fill” and Lucía asked her, quite kindly, what she thought he was going to fill it with. It came out as “Come in my mouth while he’s telling me he loves me.” Tu marido al teléfono y tú con mi verga en la boca took three tries, and came out as “Your husband’s on the phone and you’ve got my cock in your mouth.”
Clara read that one in the voice she used for handing out detentions to students.
“Perfect,” said Lucía.
“‘Spread your legs,’” Clara said. “‘Let me see that... ‘“ She stopped. She looked at the page. “‘ ... pussy.’”
“Nice one, Ms. Harrow,” said Dean, and he seemed to mean it.
Her ears were red. She turned the page and kept going. By page twenty she’d worked out how to do it. If the job was filth, she’d get the filth exactly right.
On page twenty-two Lucía got there first. Hazme lo que él nunca se atreve a hacerme.
“Easy,” said Lucía. “‘Do what he won’t.’”
“No.” Clara frowned at the page. “Atreverse means to dare. It’s not that he won’t. He’s never had the nerve.” She thought for a second. “‘Do the things he’s never had the nerve to do to me.’”
Dean put his grape down. “Fuck me,” he said. “That’s filthy, that.”
“That’s better than mine,” said Lucía. “Okay, profesora.”
Clara turned the page as if it were nothing. She felt proud.
At the break she took the script into the kitchen. In the margin of page six, in small neat letters, she had written the words she’d stumbled over: cock, pussy, soaked.
“Doing your homework?” said Julien.
He had come in with two coffees and put one down in front of her. Milk, no sugar. She hadn’t told him how she took it. His phone buzzed on the counter, screen up. She saw a single letter, M, before he turned it over.
“Work,” he said. “It never stops.” He glanced at her margin. “You’re missing one.”
“Which one?”
“‘Please.’” He sat down across from her. “That’s the word that sells the scene.”
“Of course it is,” Clara said like she is offended. “A woman begging.”
“A woman asking. There’s a difference.”
“Not in this script.” She put it face down. “Just so we’re clear, Mr. Serra. I think this industry exploits women. I signed a contract, and I don’t leave a job half done. That’s all this is.”
“Fair enough.” He didn’t seem bothered. “For what it’s worth, Lucía picks her scenes, and she picks who she works with. She’s turned Beto down twice this month. If someone wants to leave, they leave. I’ll drive them to the station myself.”
“I didn’t say anyone was forced.”
“Then it comes down to whether she chose it, doesn’t it? That’s the only honest question about any woman’s work.”
She opened her mouth and found she didn’t have an answer. It was her own argument. She had never expected to hear it back from a pornographer, over coffee.
He let it go. “How did your husband take it?”
“Take what?”
“The job.”
“He thinks I spent the day watching people argue about lighting.”
Julien nodded, as if that were a perfectly normal thing to tell a husband, and drank his coffee.
“By Friday,” she said, “there won’t be a word in that script I can’t say.”
“Friday.” He stood up. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Before lunch they ran the afternoon scene. Clara read Lucía’s lines out loud so Dean could hear how they went.
“‘Fuck me harder,’” she read, flat, every consonant in place. “‘Make me cum on your cock.’”
Lucía caught her by the tea urn afterwards. “It was good. But you read that like a grocery list.”
“The words are correct.”
“The words are fine. You’re scared of them.” Lucía stirred her tea. “When a woman says ‘fuck me,’ she’s not giving him information. She wants it. You have to say it like you want it.”
“I don’t want it. I’m just translating.”
Lucía laughed so hard she had to put her cup down.
“Cheating-wife scene,” Marisol said after lunch, reading off the call sheet. “Husband’s away. She’s on the phone to him the whole time. That will be the whole scene.”
She fitted a headset over Clara’s hair, a thin band with a small mic on a stalk. “Beto’s in your left ear. You’re in theirs.” She nodded at the sofa. “They’ve got little earpieces the camera won’t see. Beto and Julien can hear you on headphones.”
She tapped the side of the headset. “This mutes you. And if anything goes wrong, we stop”
“I won’t need to.”
“Okay,” said Marisol. “But you can.”
They put her on a stool next to the monitor, just outside the lights. Lucía lay back on the sofa in a black satin slip with her phone in her hand. Another crew member was in a room down the hall, ready to be the husband on the other end of the call.
“Y ... acción,” said Beto.
And ... action.
“No, baby, I’m fine,” Lucía told the phone. “I’m just home. All by myself.”
The doorbell rang. Dean came in wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, carrying a toolbox he was never going to open.
Beto’s voice was in Clara’s left ear “Que no lo mire. Que termine la mentira.”
“Don’t look at him yet,” Clara whispered. “Finish the lie.”
“Someone’s at the door, baby. Hang on.” She waited until the last possible second. Then she looked at Dean.
“Heard you’ve got a leak,” said Dean.
“You have no idea.” Lucía’s eyes went to the toolbox, and then lower. “You brought your tools?”
“Always.”
Then Dean’s hand found the hem of the slip and started to push it up Lucía’s thigh. The satin was so thin that Clara could see Lucía’s nipples through it, already hard.
“Despacio,” said Beto. “Que se tome su tiempo.”
“Slowly,” Clara whispered. “Take your time.”
Dean slowed down, a second after she had said it.
His thumb moved along the inside of Lucía’s knee, then higher, in no hurry at all. Lucía kept the phone steady while her breathing went uneven. The husband broke off. “You okay, love? You sound out of breath.”
“It’s the heat,” said Lucía.
Good excuse, Clara thought, and then felt embarrassed for thinking it.
Then she shifted on the stool and found that she was damp, only a little, and decided that was the heat too.
Dean leaned down to Lucía’s ear, below the phone. “Look at you,” he said quietly. “He’s right there, and you’re fucking soaked. Can he hear how wet you are? Shall I hold the phone down there and let him listen?” Lucía shook her head and spread her knees wider. His hand went under the satin, and in the quiet Clara could hear exactly how wet she was, a small slick sound each time his fingers moved. Lucía bit her lip until it went white and lifted her hips into his hand. Clara’s own thighs were pressed together so tightly that she could feel her pulse in them.
“Que se arrodille,” said Beto. “Y que le diga que lo quiere.”
“Get her on her knees,” Clara whispered. “Lucía, tell husband you love him.”
“On your knees,” said Dean.
Clara had spent two years telling girls at Hollis Park that they never had to do what a man told them. She had just told one for him.
Lucía slid off the sofa onto the rug with the phone still at her ear. “I love you, baby,” she said into it, and undid Dean’s jeans with her free hand.
“Love you too,” said the husband. “Honestly, though, the Wi-Fi in this place.”
Lucía took Dean’s cock out, and suddenly the monitor was full of it. It was thick and already hard, darker than the rest of him, and Lucía held it and looked up at him. Clara forgot to breathe. It was the first time she is seeing a another man’s cock other than Oliver. She was too classy for one night stands.
She had watched porn twice in her life, both times at university on a flatmate’s laptop. But this was six feet from her shoes, and the worst thing was that it was turning her on. Her knickers were wet now, properly wet, and she could feel the cotton cling to her every time she moved. Clara wasn’t ready for that.
Lucía took him in her mouth, slowly, all the way down, her eyes on Dean’s face and the phone pressed to her ear while her husband talked about his day. Clara could hear all of it: the wet sound of her mouth, the arm of the sofa creaking under Dean’s hand, his breathing breaking up, a low hum from Lucía’s throat. Her lipstick left a red ring round him. When she drew back for breath, a thread of spit stretched from the tip of his cock before it broke, and Clara felt her own mouth go wet.
Dean put his hand on the back of her head. “Your hubby is on call,” he said, “and you’ve got a cock in your mouth.”
“That’s it,” Dean said. “All of it, while he’s talking. Good wife.” Lucía moaned around him, and on the phone the husband said something about his hotel breakfast.
“Más hondo,” said Beto. “Que el marido la oiga.”
“Deeper,” Clara whispered. “Let him hear it.”
Dean held Lucía’s head and pushed deeper, and she took it until her eyes watered and her throat worked around him. Clara swallowed with her without meaning to, and then did it again. The wet sound got louder. On the phone the husband stopped talking. “What’s that noise?”
Lucía pulled back, licked him slowly from the base to the tip, and said into the phone, perfectly bright, “Sorry, baby. I was eating.”
Clara very nearly laughed, and it came out of her as a gasp. She pressed her knees together under the script, and that only made it worse. The pressure went straight to her clit, and for a second she couldn’t hear Beto at all.
“Que le diga lo que quiere,” Beto murmured. “Bien sucio.”
“Tell her what you want,” Clara whispered. “Make it dirty.”
Dean wound Lucía’s hair around his fist. “You’re going to suck my cock while he tells you about his day,” he said. “Then I’m going to bend you over this sofa and fuck you till you can’t talk to him. And when he rings tomorrow, you’ll still be able to feel me.”
Clara’s blouse was sticking to her back because of sweating. She put two fingers on her top button, with the thought of unbuttoning it, and then took them away again. She had to maintain her class. She could feel her pulse between her legs. Her nipples had gone hard against her bra, and every time she shifted on the stool the seam of her tights pressed exactly where she didn’t want it. She caught herself rocking against it, very slightly. A minute later she was doing it again. Her knickers were wet, and nobody in the room knew it but her.
It’s hot in here, she told herself. It’s the lights.