First Night

I know why they've really come to the opening of "Sex-starved Woman." Two big reasons. Money. Get the pieces fresh, sell them off next week to the footballers and oligarchs. But also a more animal reason. They leer and lick their lips at my objectified libido smeared all over the wall. At me. Nudging each other behind my back. Making witless gags: "Lucky old Paul, tonight, eh?" Worse. Paul leaves me to it. I have no idea where he is. Dealing with these tossers is his job. The tosser.

Then.

Then wriggling through the elegant throng, a familiar face. An elegant familiar face too: No wig, simpler eyes and lips, no heels. Longer skirt.

"Sweetie..." Polly says, looking – licking – me up and down. She is an actual blonde, but dirty, not platinum. She kisses the neck behind my ear, exactly as I imagined her doing earlier when I tied up my hair.

I must lurch or something because she grabs my wine off me. I stare at her. Into her. I well up and her smile flickers, and she takes my arm, glugging my wine. "Show me your work, then," she says and squirrels me over to a corner. I am shocked at my body's response to her. I have to pay the woman and be done with this, but my skin tingles like beam-me-up-Scotty while down below. Well, work it out.

"I didn't pay you," I say eventually. We're huddled in the corner, but stood in front of Paul's drawing.

"Yeah. Bitch," she says, and sniggers. Then she shrugs it off! So... what? She doesn't want to be paid? She really did enjoy it as much as I did? Christ this is too good to be true. It's a scam. Got to be. I've been so stupid.

I try to gather myself. I'm reading this crazily. Finish the transaction. Be cool. How much does she charge again? "Darling," I say, "I won't have it. How much? Fifty? A hundred?"

All wrong. I was aiming for urbane and generous. The words hit Polly like spat poison. Her arm goes limp in mine, then flops away. I turn to her. It's like I just strangled her puppy.

"Well, I don't know," she says, folding her arms. "If that's what you think I'm worth."

My throat clasps. I didn't expect this, for all my whore-saving fantasies. Polly's acting like she's... like she's really fallen for me?

She necks the rest of my wine. Her cheeks are crimson; her knuckles white on the glass.

"Polly—"

"You're pretty famous. You thought I didn't know that. Me being a lowly whore and all. You know I'm an actual fan of yours? When I saw it was you who wanted me, I couldn't believe my luck. Someone as talented and beautiful and cool as you wanted me? And when we actually, properly connected. I was so proud... I thought..."

I want to hold her, kiss her, but am suddenly aware of being in public. Worse. On show.

"Let's get out of here," I say.

She blanks me and nods at the drawing of Paul. "This one. They reckon it will fetch a million, right? That should cover my feeble efforts."

I reach for her hand, but it's a claw and won't relax. Her voice drops an octave. "Give me that picture," she spits. "Or I tell him. Your husband with the big wanger."

"You fucking won't," I hiss.

"I fucking will," she spits. "Probably suck him off, and all. Like he's never had it. He'll never want you again."

I want to rip the picture off the wall and fuck her with it. Right here. I want to tear her clothes off, bend her over and ram my husband inch by inch up her beautiful hole. While we kiss. While we drip.

"Ok," I say. "Done."

Her thunderous brows knot even as a smile tugs her lips. I lean close to her ear. "Tell my husband. Then do him. I want you to. While I fucking watch. I'll even throw in the picture, too." I jab her rump. "As payment."

I march off to grab more wine. Polly doesn't run off, like I hoped she might, but stays, perusing the drawing – her drawing. I'll give it to her. I've still got the photos and studies. I'll draw another and proclaim hers a fake. Doesn't she get that?

I work the room, blaming my flushed cheeks on "sex-starvation", much to the squirming delight of all the men and the flat smiles of their wives. All the time the bitch is a nagging, illicit throb. Even when my back is to her, my skin tingles as if she might explode.

Paul arrives while I'm in the loo, right toward the end of the evening, the bastard. With a lurch I find him talking to Polly in front of the drawing. He's edible in his fancy suit, even with a purple face. Anger? Awkwardness? Arousal? I swallow hard.

Paul throws his arms open as I approach. "You pimped me!" he bellows.

She's not told him the truth, then. Polly and I smile stiffly. He covers his face. "I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe a woman has paid a million pounds for a naked picture of me."

"Oh you love it," Polly says. "All men want their cocks admired."

"The picture's not all about cock, though," I say. "It's about the human condition."

Polly wrinkles her nose. "To you. To me it's about the nice fat cock." She shrugs. "Sorry."

Paul clears his throat. Standing bolt upright, he's all penis. "Each to their own, eh?" he spurts. "But won't your... hubby mind? Boyfriend?"

Seriously. While I'm standing right here.

Polly smirks. I look at my feet. At Polly's feet. She's in strappy sandals, the same toenail polish as last night, when she wrapped her ankles around my neck. I grab Paul's hand. He takes it in both his. Christ. He's scared of her.

"I'd love to take you both somewhere after," Polly says. "You want to eat out?"

#

Later, while Polly gets her coat. I grab Paul and shove my face at him. Ram-raid his mouth with my tongue. No time for subtlety.

"Let's just go," I breathe. With all the Monroe I can muster. I'll take him home, get his cock in my mouth and tell him the truth while he's at his most agreeable. I have fucked a stranger. I've given away a million pounds. Then I'll suck him like my life depends on it. Before she does. Yeesh, I'll probably have to...

"Oh you're jealous," he pulls my hips to his. The fucker's got a length of scaffold down there. "It's just a bit of harmless flattery, that's all. For both of us, if you think about it."

Polly bounds toward us. My stomach flips. Paul and I unhug.

"Oh don't stop on my account." She winks. "It's lovely to see a couple express their love."

Paul grimaces and I brace myself for a doltish man-joke. "Oo-er. Sounds a bit rude!"

I punch his arm. Probably harder than I need too.

Polly titters. "Don't be like that, Izzy. We all know you like to watch."

Paul blinks, but we are half way down the road before he summons a remark. I've got his arm. The bitch has his other. I'm surprised he can walk, he is so excited. "So, girls, how long have you known each other?" he says.

Polly laughs as if he's made the funniest joke ever. He laughs too. We stride silently along. Eventually we turn up at this chichi hotel. I jam on the brakes. "Paul, I have to—"

"Here we are!" Polly announces and drags us in.

The concierge greets Polly like an old friend, but bites his knuckles behind her back. She stops in the foyer, between the restaurant and the lifts, twirling a room key around her fingers.

"So," she announces. "We can eat here, if that's ok with you. Or..." she presses the room key to her lips and searches the ceiling for clues. Jesus.

"Here looks lovely," My hubby, bless him, gestures to the restaurant. "Shall we, ladies?"

Polly clears her throat. "I just wondered if you too might prefer... umm. Room service?" She stares at her wriggling toes, shifting awkwardly. Then peers up under her lashes.

I want to bleed. I want to kiss her cunt and bleed.

Then it hits me. Paul's the most upright, moral man I've ever known. He's not just a gentleman. He's the gentlest man in the room. He will never go for this. I take his hand and squeeze it. I turn on my heels ready for the gorgeous, aloof march out of there.

But he doesn't move.

I try to grab his attention, but he's blinking at Polly.

"Wait," he says, pulling me to his side. I can't believe this. He wants to do it? He turns to me. Shrugs. "We could, hon. It would be an experience. It's up to you."

"You want her?"

Paul's eyes fill the room. Hooded. Burning. No mistaking that look. The look he wore the first time he saw me naked. The look of our wedding night. Of the first night of every show. The only difference is that, this time? It's not for me.

A tear chills my cheek. He jolts, shakes his head. "Shit. Izzy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No stay. Eat her. Fuck her doggy. Cum in her mouth. She loves it all." I try to run, but his hand is a vice. I know I have no excuse for this behaviour, given last night, but the brutal reality of my lovely devoted man wanting someone else swamps all sense. I swing for him. He dodges and Polly cheerfully waves away security.

Trapped, snarling, I shove my face at him. "I paid her. To do me last night. And you, now. I paid her with our drawing. She's a whore, fuckwit."

I wait for the bomb to go off. But Paul just lets me go. He sighs, a great hissing release of a sigh. His features slump.

"I know." He folds his arms. "Fuckwit."

I blink at him. I blink at Polly. He waves a finger at us both. "I saw you. I bloody saw you." He jabs at me. "You need to listen to me more. When I bore you about the gallery. About its security systems. Its cameras."

Polly throws back her head and laughs. She's got the best seat in the house. I screw my eyes shut, torturing myself with a replay of last night. Mouths pressed between splayed legs, trembling stomachs, urging noises, squeals of pleasure. It must have torn my husband apart.

But he takes my hand.

"I'm sorry I snooped on you, my love." he says. And that right there? That's the man I married. His strength astonishes me. He leans in to me, into my space, and speaks quietly and deeply. "I had this dream. That you were with someone else, a woman. The woman you were shouting about the other night in your sleep. I couldn't rest. I logged on to the gallery's web cams. I didn't mean to spy but... well. I'm sorry I did."

I wince. "Stop apologising." I wedge my forehead on his chest. "it's my fault, not yours. I'm sorry."

I count off his long, deep breaths.

"You bloody will be," he rumbles.

Polly chuckles and calls a lift.

#

Part Three

So here we are. Polly's penthouse suite in the city's swankiest hotel. I guess her art pays as well as mine. It's all mirror-black stone and voile-curtained glass-partitioned minimalism, studded with pimped-up antiques. A massive old galleon of a gold-leafed double-ended bed takes centre stage, spotlit beneath a floridly framed mirror. A silkily-supercharged Louis XV chair is set beside the bed.

"Sit," Paul barks at me.

Polly won't look me in the eye. She kicks off her sandals, and pulls her dress off over her head with less awkwardness now she's not in her wig. She's dressed in just her knickers, not red this time, normal girl's panties. The details wrench me. Out of her whore-costume this is more real, like actual infidelity. It makes a pantomime of yesterday.

She turns her back to him and jiggles her bottom, then bends over. With a flush of panic, I realise she's reprising what she did for me. She doesn't grin at him between her legs, though. The abandoned joy of that moment last night has haunted me all day. She stares at the floor, waiting for him to finish taking in her display. Not that he can directly, he looks like he's staring into a bright light. My husband peering at another woman's proffered gusset should tear me apart, but instead I fancy can hear them both counting. Look, two-three. Stand, two-three. Turn, two-three.

She steps toward him and presses her skin to his suit, gazing up at him. Her nipples stiffen. For some reason, this, I cannot stand.

"Stop," I blurt. But I can't turn away from them. They might want to hurt me but they're still the two sexiest people I've ever met. My insides can't help but lurch toward them, Paul's strong dark frame against Polly's creamy softness. It's irresistible. A black hole of pain, radiating horn.

"No," Paul says. "We've paid this young lady a lot of money. You've had your turn. Now it's mine."

Polly fiddles with his belt buckle. Her hands are trembling badly. Why? With a trickle of excitement, I wonder if she's not as into torturing me as she thought she would be. Despite her bravado, earlier. Perhaps this is as difficult for them, now, as it is darkly arousing for me.

She unzips his fly and his trousers drop. Of course, he's not wearing underwear. He's not hard, though. Christ, he's actually waxed his balls.

"When did you plan this?"

Polly jumps a little at my voice. Paul pulls an unconvincing smirk. "While you were asleep—"

"Not you," I snap.

Polly addresses me for the first time, with my husband's flaccid cock in her palm. She reaches beneath him, cupping his smooth balls. They spill over her tiny hand. I feel her fingers cupping me. She speaks down at his stirring manhood. "He got my number from your phone. Invited me to the opening. Told me what he'd seen. He said he wanted exactly the same and that I could name my price."

Her eyes are slits, her fat lips slack. She might have been dressed as a whore with me, but she's acting now. She drops to her knees. Paul still isn't hard, his cock flopping out at barely ninety degrees and nodding feebly. His fists clench.

When she presses her lips to his shaft, she draws a groan from him and me both. The phantom of her first kiss to my sex has me uncrossing my legs, clasping prayer hands between my knees.

She rolls a glassy gaze up at him with his veiny brute lolled across her cheek. But she's not smiling. A frown flickers across her forehead. I guess she's used to clients as overexcited as I was. Maybe that's why she deviates from last night's script and tickles a come-hither finger under his head, and when that doesn't work, curls her tongue under instead. Precise little licks. One. Two. Three. Paul shivers, and swells. It's been a year since I last had Paul's taut bulb against my tongue. My shins slide along each other. I wish I'd worn stockings. Or trousers. I'm too exposed in this little dress.

He takes his half-mast off her, and rubs it briskly.

"Show me. Like you showed her."

Polly stands and removes her panties. Even in the middle of this cold show the uninterrupted sweeps and dips of her flawless skin have me salivating. She presses her underwear into his palm. His eyebrows raise. He throws her knickers at my face, and they leave a love-heart kiss on my cheek. I don't flinch. She's not that excited as a result of his limp performance. Not that his male ego sees it that way. The simple fact of her aroused state puffs him up. His cock bounces happily hard and with an inelegant flourish he tries to pull his half-unfastened shirt and tie off over his head. For a moment he is stuck inside, struggling. Polly helps him.

And shoots me a wicked grin.

This girl, my girl, is just having a laugh. I feel like she's thrown open her toolbox of torture instruments to reveal, not knives and thumbscrews, but furry handcuffs and vibrators.

She recomposes her pout as Paul is revealed, smoothing his dishevelled hair. He is still in his socks. He quickly yanks them off before grabbing Polly and jamming his lips to her bitten grin.

She moans a professional moan and automatically squeezes the muscles of his arms, his back and buttocks. I never realised he was so... built. Or is it just her tiny hands? His great paws make the big globes of her bottom seem small. The suit each other well, but otherwise their grippy dance is almost hilarious in its attempts to show off. Like the cheapest, most awkward porno actors on the planet. How can I be jealous of this?

Then their kiss relaxes and to my horror Polly and Paul melt together, right in front of me. Meld. I can't look away. It's like teasing a wound. A stimulating pain.

I sense surprise in the catch of Polly's stagey moan, delight even, as Paul cups her cheeks and kisses her with gut-twisting tenderness. She pushes up on tip-toes, wrapping her arms around his neck. Chewing back at him. Their eyes are closed and her hips roll her belly against him. I can't see the effect her eager body will be having on him, but feel the echo of my husband's hard rod on my own belly, morphed with the memory of Polly's sinuous urgency against me, too

I squirm in my seat. My hands wring between my knees. Christ my feet are wringing, too. What happened to my shoes? My clothes are too tight. Please stop kissing like that. No. Do him. Do her. Do me.

Polly tilts her hips toward me, revealing my husband's thick fingers between her legs. His wedding band glints for a moment, before she pants off her kiss and presses her hand to his, holding him in place. Guiding him. She shivers, watching her other hand slide back the skin off his cock.

Polly sighs, "Yesss..." and squeezes out a rolling bead of pre-cum from my husband's tip. She starts to stoop down, her lips parted.

"Don't." My voice is no louder than the squeak of a mouse. My head screams for an end to this, my body aches for more.

Polly runs her tongue around Paul's pulsing end, dropping her mouth over it and sucking with a small quivering moan that soon ekes from my lips. She shoves him back on the bed. Spreads his knees and kneels between. Just as she did for me.

I want to rip her away from that private place. That's my place! I want to run my tongue all over his balls like she is now, in exactly the way I crave to run it around her cunt. And she, she should be nuzzling at me so keenly, not him. My hands are clasped between my legs as if trying to hold back the tide, but my fucked-up senses have them wrapped around his cock where hers are. Working his orgasm out into the world. Performing her art.

He leans on his elbows, watching her. Watching me. He's expressionless. I know that face, the guarded, inward turn of secret relish, recording every moment. Probably the same face he saw on me the other night. His jaw muscles ripple, his abs clench. When did he get so buff?

But the moment isn't as agonising as it might be because – even as Polly sloppily wanks him into her mouth with the kind of relish only a whore can muster – her hips are tipped to me. He can't see, but her fingers are between her legs and playing with herself: Pulling her lips apart, rubberily swirling her clit, slapping her podgy flesh just for the fun of making it quiver. Just for me.

So when I pull my feet onto the chair, let my dress fall back and slide my panties up my thighs to my knees, Paul thinks I'm puckering up my new bald bits to him. I smile at my husband. He has no idea. He swears, whether from arousal or anger at having utterly the wrong effect on me, I can't tell. Polly gasps off his cock, her hand a blur. She sneaks a quick look back at me, blowing hair from her eyes. I strum my slippery groove under her smoulder. Let them see how much I hate this.

My smugness is soon snuffed.

Paul is too polite and too well trained (by his wife) to ever cum in a girl's mouth. He grabs his chance to release while his succubus is diverted. Teeth clenched, growling, he thrusts his hips high off the bed. Polly squeaks and leaps back to her task, up on her feet. Gobbling him back into her.

He roars so loudly I swear someone in the room below us laughs. I grunt, winded. Polly holds him still in her mouth with a fixed fist, absorbing his violent thrusts, leant motionless over him like a vampire stooped to the killing bite. She sucks him eagerly, triumphantly, even, with a fanfare of happy hums. His wrenched cries bubble over into a crazed laughter that sucks the air out of me. He's never made that noise for me. I've never made him that happy.

One of the brightest moments of my life was on the day Paul first licked me to orgasm, and afterward kissed me and laughed at my agonised confession that I wouldn't swallow him in return; that the idea of his cum in my mouth was revolting. "But your stuff's still mine!" I'd said and licked and rubbed him until he fountained two feet in the air. How we cooed at the firework display of our sealed deal! I couldn't believe my luck. I'll marry this man, I thought.