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

CHAPTER FIVE

And of course she'd done just that. If you could call it rape. Kerry knew how to hold his own, as far as raping and being raped went, and her cunt still ached from the frenzy of fucks he'd thrown into her. How would he feel if he knew that three other men had used his wife's body that same day? One had contented himself with eating her pussy, another with squirting cum onto her face while they watched dirty movies, and the third had engaged her for an hour of fairly normal sex, seasoned by a little fantasy and wish-fulfillment. Mr. Webber and his Wonder Woman yearnings. He'd been a little rough today. His fingers had left the bruise Kerry had noticed on Pam's tit. Next time she'd warn him about marking the merchandise. But, oh, God, he'd torn off her clothes, and thrown her on the bed, and then rammed his cock up her, and if he was getting off by pretending to screw Wonder Woman, well, she could dig it too, and as his tight, grasping fist closed over her breast, she found herself lunging up, meeting his eager thrusts, her cunt melting around his hard, energetic cock. She'd scarcely noticed the pressure on her tit. Afterwards he'd even given her a bonus for the halter top and hot pants he'd torn apart undressing her.

Pam wanted to think that the knowledge wouldn't offend or sicken her husband – that, on the contrary, it would make him stare at her with a newfound lustful appreciation. That he'd realize the basics of the situation, too. Other men craved her, were willing to pay for the use of her body, were glad to come back again and again, at a hundred dollars a crack. It was exciting to make secret appointments with those other men, even more exciting to meet them afternoons at various hotel rooms and ball their brains out. The money was great, too, and someday it would come in handy, she was positive. But it didn't mean anything. It was just something she did for kicks and amusement and – well, for adventure, too. God, a housewife didn't have that many chances to meet adventure face to face and come out the winner.

Would Kerry understand that? She didn't know, and Pam decided that it would be far better he never found out. Anyway, it couldn't last much longer. Just today she'd found herself a little blase about meeting three repeat customers, knowing what they wanted, how to give it to them. Was afternoon whoring about to lame its excitement for her?

Well, she thought philosophically, if it does, it does. I'll find something else to do. Maybe I'll go back to masturbation. God, how long had it been since she'd needed to frig herself on angular basis? Since high school, at least! Maybe she'd buy one of those cock-shaped vibrators and a lot of batteries and spend afternoons trying to short-circuit the machine in her dripping snatch. Or maybe she'd find some other local housewife with nothing to do in the afternoon and see if the lucky lady would care to try out a girl-girl scene.

"What did I just say?" Pam murmured, turning over in bed. "What?" She blinked couple of times. It had been a long day, and that movie had been so lovely to look at. This time of night she was usually rather groggy, and more so tonight than normally. Her hand moved under the blanket, giving Kerry's sleeping cock a final squeeze of love.

"Night, babe," she whispered. "You'll probably be up first thing in the morning, if I know you, and I'd better get a little rest, too."

She snuggled closer, felt his warmth against her body, and closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to descend. The last thing she thought of before dropping off was how delectable the blonde girl's pussy had looked in the close-up scenes of that movie today. A pink gash, vivid and visible among the dark-golden hairs, and inside it was a slippery-smooth expanse of folds and crevices, with one small, exquisitely tight opening and a reddish clitoral bud sticking up like a tiny stiff nipple aching to be sucked.

She awoke Thursday morning to find her husband in the act of sliding his hard cock up her pussy. "Hey, what gives?" Pam grinned up at him, spreading her legs just a trifle so he could wedge more easily the tip of his large tool.

"I don't know," he said solemnly. "I dreamed about you all night, and when I woke up I had this enormous hard-on. Well, I can't even piss till I get rid of the thing, so I just thought I'd…"

"Don't think – do!" Pam smirked, reaching down to touch the shaft of his cock. Mmmm, warm and stiff, and glowing with lust. Just the way she liked to see her man. Or men. "What are you waiting for?" she asked. "An engraved invitation? Show me how cunty your dreams were. Show me."

And so he showed her, burying his eight inches of hard gristle in her welcoming pussy, grinding at her till the hairs of their crotches were tied in a true lover's knot. She worked herself on him, milking his cock with knowing twitches of her snatch, and they rocked it back and forth, fucking, being fucked, until he squirted a thick morning load of cream into her invigorating depths and, alas, it was time for Kerry to get ready to go to work. Pam lay sighing on the bed after he'd gone to the bathroom, and she toyed with her sticky, cummy cunt. Mmmm, she thought, tasting the juices that flowed from her cunt, I wonder if there have been any calls for Patricia Wright? Well, she'd know, as soon as Kerry left for work.

Oh, damn it, she added mentally, I didn't say I was going to give it up now. I'll think about it later. Later.

She took a little nap after Kerry left, and consequently didn't get around to checking with her service till eleven o'clock. This was her last working day of the week – she only sought adventure on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and she called quite later than usual.

"Damn it," Pam said, biting her lip. The nap had cost her a hundred dollars. A repeat customer from Detroit wanted to see her at noon and she didn't have time to get to him now. But she knew where to reach him, and she'd leave a message. Maybe next time he was in town… "Any other calls?"

"Just one," the operator said. Only two bookings for today? Better than one, not as good as the four she'd handled one memorable afternoon. "It's from – I think – I didn't take this message, Ms. Wright, and I have the most awful time with Charlotte's handwriting. As nearly as I can tell, it's a Mr. Hagen. Yes. H-A-G-E-N. It could be McHagen, too, I suppose, because Charlotte just scribbles. There's an M and a squiggle and – reference? Oh, yes. He mentioned a Mr. Pendexter – does that sound familiar to you? I think that's what she wrote – from New York City."

Pam nodded. Hagen or McHagen, he was a new customer and she didn't take new customers without a reference. Pendexter, though, was all right. He was a pussycat. Generous, and handsome enough to make the generosity seem a real treat. Half her clients were that sort of man – good-looking, well-heeled, the kind of man a girl wouldn't mind being seen with in public. High rates kept out the trash trade, and references made sure she'd continue to deal only with the right kind of men. Well, if Pendexter had sent him, then she was willing, to give Hagen (or McHagen) a chance. He was at the Hartford House, room 1457, and he wanted to see her at two sharp if that was agreeable. Pam mused a moment, then decided that it was more than agreeable. First she dialed the Hartford House and asked for room 1457. It was always a good idea to talk to a new client before meeting him. That way she could get some idea of what he wanted. Bathroom sports, for example, were a no-no. Except for screwing in a tub. That could be fun, two bodies colliding all wet and soapy, a suds-covered cock slicking into a wet, foamy twat. But no pissing and shitting on one another. Or he might expect to screw her in the asshole, and that was also on the no-no list. Unless the man was very small-cocked. She'd take Kerry in her brown hole occasionally (though, thank God, he didn't try it very often, and only when she was really souped up) for love, but she wouldn't give it to another man of his size even for money. He might prefer some special costume or something. Once she'd balled a guy who got off on pigtails and knee socks. She felt silly dressing like a little girl, especially with her lush tits and ripe ass, but the customer hadn't complained.

There was no answer, and the switchboard operator advised her that the occupant of room 1457 was out light now but was due back shortly after one-thirty. Well, she thought, I'll just dress neat – but sexy – and see if that's enough to turn on Mr. Hagen. Or McHagen. If he craved anything else, he could tell her face to face, and she'd do her best to deliver within the restrictions. Pam went in to shower, douche, and get herself fixed up.

She was just going out the door when the phone rang. "Oh, darling," she said happily, forgetting all about Mr. Hagen and his needs. It was Kerry.

"Well," he said, and she could detect the pride in his voice. "You may be talking to the new assistant supervisor. It's not sewed up yet, but we've been talking each other round in circles all morning, and it looks good. Brass from the main office, hon." He laughed. "We're invited to a party this evening, about nine at the Murdocks'. Wait till you see the brass who came to check me out, kid. You wouldn't believe who – oh. Mr. Murdock wants me. I've gotta run. Hey, it looks good, babe, really good. See you when I get home." He smacked a kiss into the phone and Pam could almost taste that kiss on her lips. Mmmmm, wasn't that great? Kerry deserved a promotion and she'd keep her fingers crossed for him all afternoon. And a party tonight? Did she have anything fit to wear? Well, she thought, if I don't, then I'll just buy something on my way home. Pam smiled and went out to her car. Forty-five minutes later, at eight before two, she was locking the door in the underground parking garage at the Hartford House.

It was two sharp when she stepped out of the elevator, according to the clock in the hotel hallway, and she stepped briskly toward the door she was looking for. 1457. Pam nodded, then tapped on the door. She was dressed properly, she thought, to meet a new customer for the first time. Poor boy cap with long dark hair falling from it around her face, midi-length coat, sweater, fashionable wool skirt, and low-heeled shoes.

She tapped again, and a distant, rather reedy voice from inside the room called, "Come in. It's not locked."

Pam opened the door and went into the sitting room portion of the suite. Small couch, chairs writing table, television set. The bedroom door was closed but she could hear sounds from beyond it, and there was a cigarette smell in the air. On the writing table was a bottle of Irish whisky, with glasses and soda. Pam sat down on the couch, crossing her long legs, not bothering to pull down the risen hem of her skirt.

"I'm Patricia Wright," she said. "You called me this morning. I tried to get in touch with you after I got your message but you were out. You mentioned Mr. Pendexter when you called my service, and that was an excellent reference. Oh, I couldn't get it straight from the service – the girl who took the message is a functional illiterate, I believe – is your name Mr. Hagen or McHagen?"

The bedroom door opened and so did Pam's mouth. "Neither," said the woman standing in the doorway. "It's Ms. Hagen."

Apparently it was. Pam tried to collect her thoughts as the woman strolled into the sitting room, but the only thing that passed through her mind was that Charlotte must have written Mr. instead of Ms. or Mrs. Or did that matter?

"There must be a mistake," Pam said finally.

"No." The woman shook her head almost unconsciously. "I called you. Jack Pendexter is a good friend of mine, and he recommended you in the highest terms. Sit down, please." And she came closer. Not knowing why she did it, Pam sat down again.

"I don't understand. What you want with me, I mean."

The woman laughed. "The same thing anyone wants when they book you, darling. Well, maybe not the same thing, but…" She slanted her head and looked at Pam through heavy-lidded eyes, almond-shaped, a deep sparkling green. Pam felt uncomfortable under that stare and a soft red blush began to spread across her face. "I think you'll do nicely," Ms. Hagen announced, planting her fists on her hipbones and straightening up.

She was attractive, in an almost careless way. An inch or two above average height, perhaps, but not as tail as Pamela. Her hair was russet-colored and swept lazily around her strong face. If faces meant anything, she was obviously a woman of will power and determination. The set of her chin, the firmness of her nose and cheeks, the confidence that smiled from her lips. She wore a jacket, slacks, and white blouse with a large scarf tied at her neck and, though the clothes fit her loosely, it was impossible not to imagine that tile rest of her body was as firm and confident as her face. Pam's flush deepened. For the first time in her new hobby, Pam Wilson was at a loss. She wasn't sure what to say or to think.

Ms. Hagen removed her jacket and Pam noticed the high thrust of the woman's nearest tit where the silk blouse clung and molded. "A drink?" Ms. Hagen asked, walking toward the table. Pam shook her head, then nodded. Ms. Hagen poured out two stiff jolts of Jameson's, added soda. "Sorry, there doesn't seem to be any ice."

Pam took her drink and sipped at it. When she raised her eyes Ms. Hagen was still there, only a few feet away, staring at her. Eyes like a cat, she thought, a prowling, hungry cat. Does that make me the mouse?

"Thank you for the drink," Pam said, "but I think I ought to be going…"

Ms. Hagen caught her hand, held it in a surprisingly strong, deceptively warm grip. "No, don't leave. Please don't." She put down her glass and glided close, so close that her body moved into place only inches from Pam. If I breathe, Pam thought, our tits are going to bump together.

"You're lovely," Ms. Hagen said softly, purring the words up into Pam's face, breathing out the scent of Irish whisky too. "Jack told me you were absolutely beautiful, with the softest warmest body he'd ever been next to, and that you were hell between the sheets. Show me, Patricia. Here, let me…" And with that she put her hands firmly upon Pam's tits, and there's no need to worry about the effect of breathing. Pam moaned, lifting up onto tiptoes as the woman's hands closed upon her swelling tits and she felt her nipples erect suddenly, savagely, against the fabric of her sweater.

"Oh, God," Ms. Hagen panted, "oh, dear God." She leaned closer then, her lips puckering, and she planted her mouth on Pam's bare neck, pushing aside a fall of almost-black hair to get at the skin. And when she took hold, she was like a leech, her mouth affixing itself, sucking, nibbling, her hands flexing on Pam's tits as the nipples just kept getting bigger and harder inside the sweater, bigger and harder, throbbing as they swelled, heating, bunting, burning…

Pam staggered, murmuring, "No, no," and then she was being guided backwards, Ms. Hagen prodding with her body, and almost before she knew it the couch sprang up to catch her and they were both on the small couch, half sitting, half lying down, and her sweater was being lifted by hot, eager hands.

Under the sweater she wore nothing but her skin and a dab of perfume on each nipple, and at the moment those nipples were fat swollen peaks of arousal, extended almost an inch in length.

Ms. Hagen raised her lips from Pam's neck and, before the startled part-time whore could cry out, those lips were planted squarely upon her own and a hot, passionate tongue was jammed into Pam's mouth, stabbing, dueling Pam's tongue, pressing as if it meant to thrust its way down Pam's throat. Pam moaned and bucked, and she sought to lunge up from the sofa, but Ms. Hagen slipped a leg between hers and she found herself pinned.

It certainly wasn't the first time Pam had ever been kissed, but it was the first time she'd ever been kissed with such soul-eating intensity. Saliva dripped from the other woman's mouth into hers, and that tongue kept jiggling around, and Pam closed her eyes, enduring, feeling as if she were drowning slowly in a vat of honey. Fingers closed upon her bare breasts and her nipples would have screamed, had they voices of their own.

But they didn't, and they could only twinge as those fingers plied them in a steely, expert grip, teasing the already extended nipples to even greater heights of excitement. Pam's tits dripped sweat and she felt Ms. Hagen's fingers slide about on the milky-white curves of her flesh, and each time that happened, Pam's tits seemed to balloon out a little more.

Ms. Hagen suddenly removed her mouth, giving Pam her first chance to breathe since this weird thing had gotten underway, but it was no more than a moment of freedom. "Uhhhh…" Pam moaned, and the moan died off as Ms. Hagen lowered her head and began to lick first one nipple, then the other, moving back and forth so quickly Pam couldn't tell which tit the woman was currently mouthing.

Ms. Hagen squeezed the boobs, making the nipples lance up pink and hard, inviting targets for her tongue, and she licked rapidly, closing her lips now and then to pull the nipple and suckle its rubbery point. Inside her sucking mouth, that tongue kept working, bathing the tit with saliva, and Pam could feel teeth – small, sharp teeth, perfect teeth, exquisitely painful teeth – digging softly but perceptibly at the flesh of her breasts again.

"Fantastic," Ms. Hagen whispered, delicately extracting her finger from a snatch that seemed reluctant to let it go. "And a cunt like a mousetrap. Ouch! Let me go, lover!"

"Uuuunnnnh…" It was all Pam could say. Her face was wet, as if she'd been crying her heart out, but it was only perspiration. She was wet between the legs too, dripping wet, and that wasn't perspiration. As Ms. Hagen's hand departed Pam replaced it with her own, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing the tingly ravine. And each time she stroked herself she felt a fresh reminder of the sudden blinding fury of the come she'd just gone through, and if she did it a few more times she could be there again, floating, if she did it a few more times.

"A hundred dollars, isn't it?" Ms. Hagen was saying. Pam looked up, eyes failing to comprehend. "A hundred dollars? For your services, darling. Isn't that the usual sum?"

Pam shook her head, still playing with her pussy. She wasn't naked – somehow being naked would have seemed right and proper – instead she was lewdly revealed, her sweater and skirt both yanked up to reveal her sexual parts, and she felt like a whore. But a partially satisfied whore, and that made all the difference. Slowly she allowed her hand to slide off her cunt. "You mean," she said, "that you want to hire me?"

Ms. Hagen nodded, sighing. "Came the dawn," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

"It's crazy," Pam protested. "You're a woman. I'm a woman."

"I think we just proved definitively that you are a woman, darling," Ms. Hagen replied. "Now let's see what we can do about verifying my credentials."

Pam tugged down her sweater. It didn't help. Her breasts were covered with perspiration and spittle, and the sweater clung to them, revealing every luscious curve and hollow, with the nipples vividly erect, punching out the fabric where it touched them. With her other hand she slid her skirt down. She'd worn no underwear today, as a special treat for her new customer, and now she wondered just who had gotten the benefit of the treat.

"What's wrong? Do you charge more for women?"

"I-I don't – Ms. Hagen, I don't know how you got the idea, but I've never – ever – this was the first…"

"You're kidding." Ms. Hagen rose on her knees on the sofa and she stared intently at Pam's face. "You're not kidding. You've never serviced a female customer before?" Pam shook her head. Ms. Hagen took her by the shoulders. "Well," she said lightly, "you're a whore. Improvise. How much do you want?"

Pam gulped. She remembered that movie she'd watched with Mr. Ford yesterday at his hotel, the one featuring the two young girls on a picnic trip, and she remembered how much it had turned her on at the time. She'd even thought about it again last night, in the weird, free-association period her brain always went through just before she dropped off to sleep. But not seriously. She hadn't really wanted to try it. Had she? Pam moved her legs together, felt the upper curves of her thighs start to pressure in a sawing motion on the swollen, itchy puff of her twat. She closed her eyes, needing a moment to think without having to stare into those predatory green eyes…

"Sure, I'm a whore," she said, opening her eyes and looking Ms. Hagen full in the face. "And since you're getting my lesbian cherry, I think a hundred and fifty would be more in order."

Ms. Hagen smiled. Her eyes wrinkled when she smiled, and Pam found that quite fetching. All in all, Pam thought, Mrs. Hagen was an attractive woman indeed. If she was going to do it with a woman, for the first time, she could have done a lot worse than Ms. Hagen.

The woman stroked a fallen lock of hair back from Pam's forehead. "All right, Patricia darling," she said. "A hundred and fifty dollars it is. But I expect to get my money's worth from your lips. And from your hands. And anything else you care to throw in."

Pam smiled cockily. "I think you'll get your money's worth," she replied. "No one's ever asked me for a refund before."

Ms. Hagen leaned in, kissed Pam on the mouth. "Show me," she said. "Show me, Patricia."