"Wife on call" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Ron)

CHAPTER TWO

Pamela Wilson stepped into the shower, but the pink, scrubbed body that emerged belonged to someone else altogether, someone who liked to be called Patricia Wright. In some ways, she thought, I'm like a Mrs. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. She stood on the bath mat, rubbing herself dry with a soft, fluffy monogrammed towel, and then she walked to the full-length mirror.

She liked what she saw. She always liked what she saw in her mirror. Pam Wilson – Patti Wright – the same beautiful woman, no matter which name she was using.

Very tall – five-nine in her bare feet, with a full, flowing mane of lustrous dark hair. Wideset, sparkling eyes, small chin, generous mouth that revealed gleaming ivory teeth when she smiled. Cream-colored skin that was too delicate to burn leathery in the sun come summertime. A generous figure, constructed on the lines of 38C-24-37, the hips just a shade narrow for her tits but a stunningly crafted piece of work indeed. Pam cupped her tits from beneath and lifted gently. Her breasts were large and full, but at twenty-six they hadn't begun to sag at all yet, and she was more grateful than words could express.

The nipples were enormous, large pink circles surrounded by a tracery of blue veins, and the tips of her nipples extended almost an inch when they were aroused. Pam rubbed those tips with her fingers until her nipples were aroused, and she was delighted to see that they still extended almost an inch. She squeezed her tits from beneath, squeezed until the nipples throbbed and tinged, and then she ran her hands down her smooth-skinned, slightly convex stomach, onto her pelvic bones. The tips of her fingers laced through the tangle of dark, matted-wet pubic hair that fleeced Pam's cunt, and she pressed down, tickling the lips of her gash.

She was wet, her hair fallen in soaked strands around her face, and she wasn't wearing any makeup, but she knew that she looked good, and Pamela was pleased with the knowledge. She held her breath a moment, saw the pink flush spread over her face. Mmmmm! She gave her shower-wet pussy one last caress, then hurried into the bedroom to begin putting on her face. If she was to meet Mr. Charles at eleven, she'd have to hurry. Pam sat down at her vanity table and began to apply mascara to her eyes. In a little more than an hour and a half she'd be in a man's hotel room, renting that man the use of her body for his sexual pleasure.

It was strange, in a way. She'd never considered herself a promiscuous person – not as modem morals went. And she didn't feel the slightest dissatisfaction with her life as Mrs. Kerry Wilson, wife of a man who loved her very much, who catered to her slightest whims, who had never during their two and a half years of marriage relented in his sexual desire for her body or his love for her.

He wasn't her first man, of course. He'd never asked her for details about her previous sexual experiences, because to him it didn't matter. And she wasn't his first woman, either, not by a long shot. That didn't matter. She and Kerry clicked together and, almost from the moment she met the man Pam had known that someday he would be hers.

Pam was from a small town in the north-central part of the state. Her father was a foreman in the mines and she was one of four children – two brothers and a sister – all of them younger. She grew up much like any other girl of her generation – puberty at eleven, and it was embarrassing at first, because of the changes in her body that seemed to smack her all at once.

At twelve she was taller than most of the boys, and her tits and ass were both already well developed. She used to get snickers and whistles from boys whose heads barely reached her shoulder, and that had its embarrassments, too, but as time went on and the boys started shooting up taller and taller, she didn't mind so much. She knew she was pretty, even without being told, but it was nice to be told, and she was, often enough. In high school Pam was a "B" student, cheerleader, homecoming princess, and very popular girl in general. She wasn't sure, then, what she wanted to do with her life, but at fifteen she discovered a delightful way to pass time while waiting to decide.

DuBois was a small town, but somehow she managed not to get a reputation for wildness – at least, not a reputation that filtered back to her parents. And that was very nice. It meant that Pam could fuck discreetly and with carefully chosen partners who wouldn't go shooting their mouths off all over town. The only problem was the one faced by every teenager living at home – where to get it on.

By the time of her graduation, Pamela Jean Barbour was an expert at finding places to get it on. She'd been fucked in cars, at drive-in movies, on Sunday picnics in the woods, once in an empty school classroom during lunch hour. And there was a crazy weekend, when her parents and siblings went out of state to visit Grandma and Grandpa.

Pam had invited her current boyfriend over; he'd told his parents he was going camping with some buddies, and the coast was clear.

They drank some of Daddy's bourbon and smoked a lot of grass, and she was positive, thinking back, that he hadn't gone soft once between Friday evening and Sunday afternoon. They hardly even took time out to eat. Well, maybe he had a sandwich now and then, since he was a hungry, growing boy, but Pamela took most of her nourishment directly from his cock, down her gulping eager throat.

By the time her parents came home she was walking bowlegged, and her jaw felt as if it had been permanently set out of line. But it was a good weekend, easily the best of her life to that time, and she relished the adventure of it. What if her parents had come home early, unexpectedly early, and caught her and Jimmy doing it?

Jesus, he'd fucked her in every room of the house! Once he'd sat her on the edge of the breakfast table and punched cock up her snatch until she creamed and screamed; it had dribbled out of her afterwards, that pungent, tangy cum of his, and she was positive that there was a permanent stain on the tabletop. A eighteen-year-old girl didn't get that many chances to flirt with danger, but this one was dynamite on balls.

She went away to college – not far away, but far enough that it was too dangerous a drive on snowy winter roads, so Pam got to move out of her home and into a kind of freedom. Dorm life was, in its own way, more restrictive than life at home, but her parents were eighty miles away and no one really cared what she did on her own time. The two years she spent there were enjoyable ones, and she made the most of them.

Going back to DuBois was but of the question. She was a trained secretary now, with an A.A. degree, and she was free as a bird in the bargain. After a short stay with her parents, Pam moved again, all the way across state to the big, big city, in search of all the things young girls go searching for – love, happiness, a job, a life – and, in Pam Barbour's case, adventure, too.

She found an apartment, and she found a job that helped her pay the rent, buy food, and enjoy a few of the luxuries. She was twenty then, free to do what she wanted, and she did as much as she could. For awhile she ran with a crowd that was into a heavy drug scene, and she tried nearly everything still nourishing that sense of adventure and excitement that smoldered in her plush, full bosom. Drugs. Sex. At the time they seemed a natural combination.

With marijuana, sex was slow and dreamy, a lazy cock sliding in and out of her twit, her clit swelling and subsiding and swelling all over again, and her orgasms were equally slow and dreamy, protracted explosions she could, taste by the millisecond. With add, sex was crazy, colors coming to life all around her, weird beautiful pictures before her eyes, equally weird, equally beautiful music throbbing in her head, throbbing so plainly, so vividly she could see the music and hear the colors. With cocaine sex was like dynamite blowing out the side of a mountain, heat in the crotch and a cool, air-conditioned breeze fluttering through her brain.

But it got boring after a while, once she'd tried all the non-addictive drugs, and her friends eventually grew boring, too. For most of them, dope was the end-goal in itself. Most of the guys in her circle seemed to be drifting deeper and deeper into narcotics and hallucinogens, and it was fucking up their sex drives. They still enjoyed having girls around, but they had apparently forgotten what to do with them. And besides, after a few months, the nonstop psychedelic rock music that was a fixture of her friends' lives had begun to affect Pam's eardrums. She didn't think her hearing was quite so sharp any more, and that worried her.

And besides that, she noticed that her friends were basically dirty people, living in dirty apartments, and some of it was starting to rub off on her. Oh, hell, Pam thought, there's nothing new with those people! It's the same old shit every time I see them! I'm getting into a rut. She quit her job, moved out of her apartment, and went looking for something new.

And she found it. A new job, a new pad. Three or four times she changed jobs, each time moving into a slightly better position at a slightly higher salary, and most of those job and apartment changes were intimately connected with Pam Barbour's sex life. She tried shacking up several times, but it never lasted more than a few months. Boyfriends got boring when you saw them every day and every damned night too, and it always ended with Pam packing the guy's clothes and leaving them outside the door, the first thing he'd see when he got in from his own job. Well, why not? She hadn't formed relationships on a permanent basis with any of those men. And it was her apartment. She wasn't stupid enough to get into a position where she'd be the one to receive walking papers.

During one of her unattached periods she met Kerry Wilson, purely by accident. She backed into his car at a supermarket parking lot. They exchanged names and insurance companies and, just to be safe, telephone numbers. The damage was minimal, it turned out, and he called her the next night to report that fact and to ask her for a date. She'd found him quite attractive, even under the embarrassing circumstances of their first meeting, and she accepted.

When he brought her back to her apartment, Pam discovered that Kerry Wilson was far more attractive than she'd noticed at first glance. "You're very good-looking," she told him, lying on her bed waiting for him to finish undressing. "You have a hairy chest, which is something I really go for, you know, and – oh, God, you have a beautiful cock!" He'd just pulled down his shorts and let his dick spring free, and the sight took her breath away. In a few moments, the insertion of that big cock in her hungry, wet cunt also took her breath away. She locked her legs and arms around him and fucked him till he screamed for mercy, which didn't come until morning.

They lived together for several months, much longer than she'd ever lived with anyone else, and the glow didn't evaporate. All day at the office she found herself lusting for her man, eagerly anticipating the moment when they'd meet after work and she could feel his hard, strong body tight against hers.

He was a couple of years older than Pam, an Army veteran, currently working blue-collar at one of the suburban manufacturing plants. Making good money already, he was ambitious. Some day he'd be white collar, she was certain. And when he finally brought up marriage, she said yes, yes, yes! Two years later, the glow still hadn't worn off, not in the slightest. It was perfect. All of it. She'd found what she wanted. Security, a home in the suburbs that would be hers and Kerry's in a few more years, and, most important, a man who was crazy about her, a man who drove her mad with longing. What else could she ever want or need?

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.

Her eyes were shut tightly, hair fell into loose strands and clumps across her face, and little mewing sounds seeped through her half-closed lips. "Mmmm-mmmm…" she purred. "Yessss – more – oh, God, more, mooooorrrreee!"

But he was giving her all he had, mid she knew even as she moaned for a little extra, that what he had was sufficient. The come was forming in her guts. It would roll down her cuntal tube in a moment, drown the pair of them, soak the bed all the way down to the underside of the mattress probably flood the entire Goddamned Hartford House in the bargain. When she came wet, she came fuckin' Wetttttt, man, and she was going to come so wet, sooo wettttt – "Aaaaaeeee…" Her cry of orgasm was a moaning keen, burst from her suddenly ovaled lips, tongue fluttering like a red pennant in the aperture. Drool ran from the corners of her mouth and she was a tornado, swirling and spiraling as he tried to hold her down so he could finish his own act.

Pam made that as difficult as possible. She bucked and fought and tried to swallow him up her sucking gash, and when he did give up the struggle, squirt his juices into her bottomless pit of arousal, she was hardly aware of the ejaculation. She was still squirming and whining and writhing, and only the sudden deflation of his hard-on told her that Richard Mason too had gotten his money's worth from this bed battle. If he'd stayed up, she'd have gladly given him a second shot free, but his cock went soft and stayed soft.

Her pussy was full of cum – hers and his – all mixed and mingled together, and she smelled like a cheap whorehouse on payday night. She loved that smell and she lay on the bed, basking in it, while Richard went to the bathroom. When he returned, he was fully dressed. "Sorry," he said. "I have an appointment at two o'clock. Are you busy tonight? I'd like to see you again."

Her eyes enlarged but she tried to conceal the surprise. She knew she was good – everyone had told her that as long as she'd been fucking – but to meet a man who was willing to buy her cunt at one hundred dollars a crack? Whew!!

"I can't," she said, thinking of her husband, and he understood. At least, he understood what she meant him to understand. Prior commitment. "Maybe tomorrow?" she heard herself say aloud, and it took Pam's breath away.

"I'm flying home first thing in the morning. Listen – could I have your number? I'm in the city several times a year and I'd really like to get together again. I travel a lot, and I'm not too proud to admit that I visit a lot of working girls, but I've never found one with your enthusiasm. God, I don't even know your name!"

She was going to lie, but she remembered her purse. It was monogrammed PW. "Patricia Wright," she said, improvising around her initials. "Meet me in the lobby in about ten minutes and I'll give you a number where you can reach me. All right?"

She hurried down on the elevator and went to the nearest phone booth. Thank God the hotel kept vandals from ripping off phone books! She turned to the yellow pages and ran her finger down the list of answering services. She'd known a girl once who worked for a place like that, said it was nothing but a pimping agency for call girls – all the clients were hookers – that whole scene. There! LOGAN ANSWERING SERVICE. That was it. She'd stake her life on it. She dialed the number, learned that Logan Answering Service was delighted to accept a new client named Patricia Wright. She promised to send a check for the monthly rate first thing in the morning and in return was given a phone number to which Patti's calls could be directed.

"Here," she told Richard Mason when he came downstairs. "Call me here next time you're in town."

He took the number she'd written on a slip of note paper and tucked it securely into his wallet. A wallet that was lighter by one hundred dollars. "I won't lose this," he promised. "I really want to see you again."

Pam smiled. "Hurry back, darling. I'll be waiting." And as she watched him walk away, she found herself thinking – what in the name of God had she gotten herself into?