After the Interview

"Have a seat." He took her by the hand and seated her in the plush armchair. "Water?"

"Thank you." She had difficulty making her voice work. He poured a glass of cold water from a pitcher and offered it to her; she drank gratefully. He asked her for the card with the appointment information. She found it in her purse and handed it to him; he ripped it into fours and threw it into the trash.

"Can't have your husband finding this, now can we?" He smiled at his little joke; she dropped her eyes.

He took her hand, caressing it gently as he talked to her. He was calm and confident, something she'd always liked in men. Of course he was confident, she reminded herself: he had paid for her. All of her. His voice was low and soothing as he told her about himself, making idle conversation while giving no details that would allow her to trace or identify him.

"I'm married, too," he said, smiling as he held up his left hand with the narrow gold band on the fourth finger. Her breath caught as she looked at her own left hand, held in his, her engagement diamond sparkling like a fresh tear.

"Would you like to take those off?" His understanding surprised her. She nodded. She had meant to take them off at home, so that they would not be witness to her debasement, but had forgotten. She watched sadly as he easily plucked her rings, David's love-gifts, off her finger. He placed them carefully on the desk.

"There, now. They'll be waiting right there for you after." He moved behind her chair, placed a big hand on each of her shoulders, and began to ease her tense muscles. The warmth of his hands penetrated her thin blouse as her shoulders relaxed for him. The seduction had begun in earnest.

Steadily and skillfully, the hands did their work. Gentler than the woman's yesterday, but stronger, and with a different goal. Her blonde head fell back onto the chair as she relaxed under his touch, offering her lovely neck. He massaged it with his thumbs as his hands worked lower. Her eyes closed; she did not see the buttons of her blouse yield to his practiced fingers. She did not notice as she slipped lower in the chair, relaxing, her knees parting, her grey skirt traitorously rising as if to be sure the man noticed. He did, and smiled.

Her blue eyes popped open as he swept her up in his arms and slid himself under her in the chair. She gave a little squeak as she found herself sitting crosswise in his lap. The move was practiced and timed to perfection.

"Shhhh," he said, his hand stroking her hair. His other hand braced her slim waist. Her head fell toward his, guided gently by his hand in her hair. Their lips met. Gently, just a touch, once, then twice. Firmer then, his hand caressing the side of her face. He gently sucked her lower lip, opening her to him; his tongue, gently but firmly, took advantage. The kiss grew hotter until she was panting into his mouth. The hand bracing her waist moved inside her opened blouse, warm and firm on the taut skin of her belly. He felt her breath become shallower as his hand rose toward her bra-covered breasts. Confidently it approached them, shaped their sides, lifted and caressed them, felt the weight of them, through the soft fabric of her bra. He broke their kiss, sweeping the light-blonde hair away from her neck and replacing it with his lips. She began to squirm in his lap. Her nipples were bullets poking through her bra, as if seeking their freedom.

Suddenly, her bra was whisked out of the way; she hadn't even felt him undo the catch. Her needy nipples were captured, one between his teeth as he sucked it, the other pinched and twisted in his hand. Her hands went behind his head, pulling him into her; she arched her back, presenting her flawless breasts to him. She surrendered. She had no thought of husband, or child, or home, or why she was doing this. She was totally in the moment, and totally his. She was an eager participant as she was stripped of everything but her stockings and laid on her back on the bed. He prided himself on his skill at cunnilingus, but he would save that for another day. Her succulent pink labia were sopping wet and protruding; the scent of her arousal permeated the room. He had never seen or smelled a pussy more ready to be fucked.

He fucked her. There was no more need for him to consider her pleasure; that would happen anyway. It was unavoidable. She came twice, the second time as he filled her. She sucked him hard and he fucked her again, this time from beneath her. She came a third time as she was filled again, then rolled off to lie beside him.

He knew the exact moment when her senses returned to her, as her eyes went wide and the color drained from her face. "Would you like to use the bathroom?" he asked. Wordlessly, she fled. He heard the shower, saw the steam fill the bathroom as she tried to cleanse herself, though she knew in her heart that she could not. The shower stopped; she emerged, wrapped in a towel, looking for her clothes.

"Don't put on your blouse and bra yet." It was an order; she obeyed. He patted the bed next to him; she sat obediently. His smile looked genuine, and was.

"Especially for your first time, that was really excellent." So, she had been right: this was a test, her trial run as a whore. She wondered if she would be paid. The woman had also been right, though; he was a pleaser, and she had enjoyed the ride. Until after, when she...

"Don't worry about the nerves and reluctance at the beginning; that will make them think they're seducing you. Almost all of them love that.

"Don't leave at the same time as the client: make sure you leave at least five minutes apart; ten is better. It doesn't matter who leaves first.

"Most guys won't think of your wanting to clean up afterward; you'll need to excuse yourself to go, but don't be afraid to do so."

She had been only half listening to his critique; her mind was on other things. It wasn't as if she intended to make a career out of this.

"There's one more thing." He took the soft, pale flesh of her left breast in both hands, admired it for a moment, and lifted it. He put his mouth to its underside, almost where it joined the rib cage, and sucked the sweet flesh hard for several seconds. He then nipped her lightly with his teeth, and let her breast fall to its natural position.

"Ouch! That hurt!" she exclaimed.

"I did that for two reasons." His voice was colder now, impersonal. "First, I'm not your friend, I'm not your lover, I'm your client. That means I own you; or rather, I lease you from your boss. Do not forget it. Second, some clients like to send the girl home marked, especially if she's married. You'll need to figure out how to hide that from your husband, and what to say if he finds it. This will give you a chance to practice. Now you may put on your blouse and bra; don't forget your rings."

She dressed in silence and put her rings back on her finger. Involuntarily, she kissed them, before going to the closet to retrieve her jacket.

"Do you want to leave first?" She nodded. She wanted to get herself out of that hotel room as soon as possible.

"Very well. Here's your next client." He handed her a small card. It bore a name (obviously fake), a room number in a different hotel, and a time: two days hence. "And well done. A really excellent first performance." Smiling, he bowed her out the door, dressed, checked to be sure nothing was left in the room except the heady smell of sex, and left.

He climbed into the passenger side of a black SUV with heavily tinted windows.

"How was she?" she asked.

"First rate. They'll love her."

"I was almost positive, but it pays to be sure. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure. To be sure." He smiled as he repeated her phrase.

"I'm certain of it. Remind me again why I pay you for this."

"Because no one breaks them in like I do." They shared a companionable laugh. He looked out his window and pointed. Near them, in a small car, a beautiful blonde woman was sobbing piteously, as if her heart would break. She had clearly been crying for a while, and showed no sign of stopping. They stared at her for a moment. There had been a time, seven years ago, when the woman herself had sat in her car for what seemed like hours, freshly fucked, and had mourned inconsolably for the fidelity she had just sold. If she was remembering that time, she gave no sign.

"She'll be all right?" The man might have had a twinge of conscience, or he might have been angling for a second time with her.

"She'll get over it." She spoke from experience, hers and others'. "When she does, she'll enjoy every minute of it. She'll be perfect."

"She will," he agreed. She put the SUV in gear and drove away.

"Now tell me all about it," she said with a smile. He did.

She knew nothing of time passing as she sat in her car and wept, alone with her misery. She knew nothing of people passing by, looking at her with pity, or mirth, or scorn. She knew nothing of the two in the SUV, both of whom now knew her so intimately, watching greedily as though they would slake their thirst with her bitter tears.

She had known it would be bad, known it would be the worst and hardest thing she had ever done. She had known there would be tears. She had prepared herself, she thought. Nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of utter worthlessness, complete shame, which now enveloped her. She had known that she would probably enjoy the sex, that she would orgasm, probably more than once. It was how she was made. To have utterly surrendered, to have forsaken, even for a time and a cause, all she valued of herself: love, loyalty, fidelity: she drowned in her shame.

She daren't go home to an empty house. She was afraid of what she might do to herself, surrounded by so many reminders of her life with David and Deirdre. David! She called him, asked if he was home. He was; she wiped her tears enough to see and drove home.

David had come straight home after dropping Deirdre off at school. His distracted mind and overburdened heart could only focus on one place in the world: the hotel room in which his beloved, his Jill, would give herself to another man. Later, he would be unable to figure out why there wasn't a furrow in the living room rug, worn by his anxious pacing that morning. The clock moved past noon; no word from Jill. What was happening? He considered calling her; decided not to. She was, after all, well protected.

He heard Jill's ring tone. He snatched up his phone, narrowly missed pressing 'Decline,' and shouted "Hello? Hello?" as if she'd been in Antarctica. Her voice, indescribably sad, asking if he was at home. The click of the ended call as she hung up. Finally, finally, her car pulling in. He opened the door, saw her run stumbling up the sidewalk, caught her on the threshold, strained her to him as tightly as he could. The older lady across the street saw them, and wondered what tragedy had befallen that nice young couple; she looked at their faces again and saw the terror there. She offered up a little prayer for them and closed her door.

David Jones had seen his beautiful wife in sickness and health almost every day for nine years, but he had never seen her this broken, this undone. He saw instantly that she was in at least as bad a condition as he was. She clung piteously to him, even when he laid her down on the love seat and offered to get her a drink. He carried her in his arms as he walked to the kitchen, poured cold water for her, and settled her again on the love seat.

Just as she had the previous night, she told him everything. Unlike the previous night, it was impossible for her to be objective. They wept together, then held each other quietly until it was time to pick up Deirdre; Jill insisted that they do it together.

It looked like a normal late afternoon in the Jones house. Jill and David were trying desperately to make it so for Deirdre, and weren't doing badly, given the circumstances. Jill was in the kitchen, Deirdre was helping (don't you dare try to tell her she was playing), and David was at the computer, doing the family's books. He stood, stretched, and walked to the kitchen doorway.

"Three hundred."

"What?"

"Your commission. Three hundred."

Jill paled, then met her husband's eyes. We will survive, was the message they sent each other.

"That was quick," she responded. "How did they deposit it?"

"EFT." David answered almost without thinking. "Wait a minute..." In two strides he was back at the computer, typing away furiously. "Ha!" he shouted, then went into their bedroom and shut the door. His voice rang with an energy Jill hadn't heard since she'd left for that interview.

David was remarkably (to Jill) upbeat all evening. She met his eyes often, drinking in their message of comfort and support. She was grateful, but puzzled. After they put Deirdre to bed, she demanded to know what was going on.

"It was the EFT," David began. "If you pull up the details, you get a whole bunch of numbers from which you can derive the routing number of the bank and the account number from which the deposit was made. Tomorrow, I'm going to have the name and address on that account. I'm sure they'll be fake, but I'm also sure the bank will have electronic copies of the credentials they used to set up the account. That stuff can be traced a lot more easily than most people think it can.

"Jill," he pulled her close to him, "nobody should have to go through what you've been through the past two days, but because of your sacrifice today, I think we're starting to get somewhere."

"You sacrificed too, David, even before the last two days. You didn't talk much about it, but I knew how you hurt, not being able to provide for your family as you wanted to. What I gave up today wasn't mine, it was ours, together. I know very well how much it meant to you. You didn't even get good sex in return for it."

It was true. She knew what David would ask next.

"Was it better than with me?"

She looked away; she couldn't watch his face while she answered, completely and honestly. "No. He's very skilled, as I told you, and I was ... completely in the moment. I thought I would be able to act, but not feel? Women are supposed to be able to do that, but it didn't turn out that way. I surrendered to him. I'm more ashamed of that than of anything else. You know how I always say the cuddling and snuggling after is the best part? The sweet aftertaste? Today, the aftertaste was more bitter than anything I've ever known, or even imagined.

"Technically, it was good sex, and I 'enjoyed the ride,' as she said I would. Maybe, if he had time to get to know me, he would be as good with me as you are, physically speaking. He enjoys pleasing women, and does it well, but what I felt afterward was so horrible that I don't ever want to go on that ride again.

"Does that tell you what you need to know?" She looked into his eyes with sympathy, but also with love and courage.

"Yes, I think so. Thank you for telling me, and for always being honest with me." He sighed. "It's bad enough feeling that I can't support my family as I ought. Imagining my wife, my love, giving herself to another man and climaxing in his arms, was far worse. Knowing that in fact, it happened, is just soul-deadening. I feel like a complete eunuch."

"No!" Jill shouted, her blue eyes blazing at him. "No! All that really matters is here," she placed her hand, its diamond flashing fire as if ignited by her love, over his heart, "and here." She tenderly placed his left hand over her heart. "You're ten times the man he is, in every sense of the word, and I'll tell it to his face. I don't care if he can make me cum fifty times, he'll never be the man you are."

They didn't make love that night; David's emotions were still too raw. Just before they fell asleep, though, he pulled up Jill's night shirt, and lifted her left breast to see the mark that she had told him about. It was right over her heart. The bastard probably did that intentionally, he thought. Jill wasn't surprised to feel his tears fall on her breast. She was surprised and moved when he tenderly kissed the bruised and reddened flesh.

"Kiss it and make it better?" she asked, smiling tremulously at him.

"That will fade, and come to nothing," he declared, with quiet confidence. "This," he placed his hand once more over her heart, "won't."

Jill was still asleep when David crept quietly out of their bed. He would call in whatever favors he had to, he would use every bit of skill he possessed, to trace that money to a real person. He'd been a supply clerk during his military service, and had acquired the reputation of being "deadly with a pencil." (Or a sausage. Don't ask.) He would outdo himself today, and if he succeeded, he would give that bored-looking vice squad detective a real name, and save Jill from what lay in store for her tomorrow.

Detective Polisi hadn't been as disinterested as he'd led young David Jones to believe. He had looked up the web site on the card David gave him, and found a familiar name: "Felicity." He'd known about her for years, but had never had enough evidence to go after her. This David Jones seemed to have some special reason for pursuing her. Very well then, let him. He had seen the wedding ring on Jones' hand, and had a pretty good idea what might be involved. It didn't bother him. Some policewoman would be spared the trouble. He could wait.

"Felicity" was in a good mood as she fired up her laptop, with its desktop picture of her husband and children, taken on last year's ski trip. They'd been planning a trip to Paris, then the south of France, and were to leave in a couple of weeks. Deluxe all the way, of course. How nice, she thought, not to have to worry about the money! Her husband would occasionally ask how she was able to afford everything, but she had her answer ready. "I'm paid what I'm worth," she would say with a laugh. What loving husband could question that? Besides, it was true.

She had no permanent office. Firms with whom she did business were happy to let her borrow temporary quarters. The picture on her desk provided a look of permanence; no one need know that the drawers of the desk were almost completely empty. Today, she had no appointments, so her laptop and phone were all she would need. Even so, she would not work from home: too many things could go wrong, and she would never risk her husband discovering her business. She loved him far too much for that. She smiled as she thought of her absolute discretion shielding him from what he did not need to know. It's what loving wives do.

She was looking forward to the time away with her family. Jen, her second-in-command, had given up seeing clients and now did the books and handled the money; she would be fine on her own for two weeks. She smiled again at the picture on her screen. She loved her family, and loved being with them. Perhaps, one day, she mused, she would ease herself out of the business, and spend all her time with them. Money would certainly be no problem. Perhaps she would pass the business on to Jen, or just dissolve it. One day, maybe: but not today.

Jen called with her daily report. After passing on the usual information, she mentioned a possible problem. "Just a heads-up: the deposit information for your newest employee is for a joint account. You may want to get her to change that, and alert her for some possible husband trouble."

Felicity thought happily of her new recruit. It was amazing, she reflected, that though they looked nothing alike, they were so very similar. They shared love for their families, and especially their husbands; money issues, and assets of stunning beauty and blazing sexuality that were just waiting to be properly merchandised and monetized. She was having issues at first, of course, but that was to be expected, given her history. She would soon settle in, enjoying her work and making all the money she desired, to bring home to the husband she loved.