Hubby's Whore Ch. 01

My name is Patricia. Well, let's say Patricia Morgan although obviously, Morgan isn't my real last name. I'm Tricia to the world and Patty to a very few. If you want to know what I look like google "bbw deedra rae." It's not me but close enough as not to matter. She and I could be very close sisters if not twins and, well, for obvious reasons I'm not going to put my own picture up here.

I ran across a book called The Happy Hooker by Xaviera Hollander (which I presume to be a nom de plume). But the book caught much of my experience and it seemed to me that since it was 40 years old it was time for an upgrade. So here I am.

I came late to The Profession. Well, at least in terms of engaging in sex for money. I started at 28 helping my husband "earn" his promotions on my back. Okay, on my belly and on my knees and on all fours too. When he reached the top of his career ladder - he's Vice-President of Seven Boring Things for a Fortune 500 company now - he no longer needed those services. But I had developed skills and I enjoyed the work. So I decided to turn pro.

He was reluctant at first but I pointed out a couple of things to him. First, he was the one who started me on this path and he hadn't seemed to mind when I had one of his boss's cocks down my throat or even if my face was buried in a boss's wife's lap. Second, we would make the standard pimp arrangement, 60-40 with him on the big end. He would handle security and the money and I would handle everything else so to speak.

We're both adults and, well, he understood that when it got down to it I would do what I wanted to so in the end he agreed.

I was 44 when I turned pro and I didn't know how it would work out, to be honest. I like to think I clean up pretty good, but, well, I was 44. And I had finally given up dieting and accepted that gravity wins. My boobs have always been big, my bras are 44FF, and I just accepted the sag. My belly was what it was and I gave up trying to lose it. My son had actually been a fairly small baby at 7 pounds 2 ounces but lord he had left me with a roadmap of stretch marks. No amount of Vitamin E or any of the other "removers" worked so I just decided I'd live with them.

So I did some thinking. What was my market to be? Would young executives on the rise think "mommy" if they saw me? Would more mature men be interested in someone who wasn't a Barbie Doll? About the only thing I was sure of was that I was NOT going to be a streetwalker hustling to turn half a dozen tricks a night. I would be a well-compensated escort or call girl or whatever the current word was, or I just wouldn't pursue this. It's not like we needed the money.

I felt stupid asking David, my husband, about this but he is, after all, a business and marketing guy. I have never deluded myself that he "needed" my help to get those promotions no matter that he thought he did. But I like to think I sped his climb up the career ladder.

Once I got past the initial awkwardness - - it's not all that easy talking to your husband, the man you love and are in love with, about how to best sell your ass - - he seemed to get into the idea.

"Okay," he said, meeting my eyes, "what do you want to be?"

"Huh?" I said, practicing my brilliant repartee skills.

He chuckled.

"I imagine that you don't see yourself as a twenty-dollar streetwalker trying to turn a dozen tricks a night," he said.

"Okay," I said understanding what he meant, "no, I don't see that. I kind of, well," and I stammered a little. It felt weird just saying it out loud like that.

"Well," I continued after taking a drink of my screwdriver, "I think of myself as a, what do you call it? an escort? A call girl? I picture dinner and drinks and maybe dancing and then, well, I see myself spending the night."

"uh-huh," he said, "so you ain't cheap."

I laughed softly.

"I'm many things honey, but cheap is definitely not among them," I said.

"Okay," he said, trying to be clinical but he was chuckling too, "let's talk about limits."

"Huh?" I said again.

"What are you prepared to do?" he said, holding my eyes with his.

"Oh God," I said, "I don't know."

"Well, let's see," he said, "I've seen you do oral and vaginal sex with men and women so I guess those are part of the standard package."

"Standard package?" I said.

"Yeah," he said, "basic branding. You need to establish your basic program, your standard package. Then, well, extras are extra."

"Extras?" I said, trying not to feel completely stupid.

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath, "would you do anal?"

I felt myself blushing.

"You know I like that," I said.

He smiled.

"Yes honey, I know you do," he said throwing in a bit of a leer, "but that should be an extra charge. Men would expect to pay extra."

I guess I looked puzzled because he chuckled and said "seriously Tricia. I do know what I'm talking about."

"Ooookay," I said, drawing out the vowel, "so what else would be 'extra'?"

"Welllllll," he said, this time it was him drawing out the consonant, "let's see. There's titty fucking, facials, handjobs, hair conditioner, spanking, bondage, water sports, toilet play, age play, roleplay, humiliation, public...."

"Okay," I said holding up my hand, "I get it."

Another drink of my screwdriver.

"So let me see if I have it right," I said contemplating the contents of my glass and not meeting his eyes, "the standard package would be vaginal and oral sex. Extras would be anal, boobs, hands, feet, and all the rest, is that about it?"

"Yep," he said tipping his own glass to me like in a salute.

"God," I said, "I don't know. David," I held his eyes, "am I making a mistake here?"

"Oh no," he said, "if you want to stop then stop, but you do it because you want to. I will not make that decision for you."

Which made me giggle a little.

"I know honey," I said, "you didn't want me to do it in the first place."

Another drink of the screwdriver and I realized I had drained it. As I was making another I was thinking. Hard.

I sat down and met his eyes again.

"Yes," I said, taking a deep breath, "I want to see if I can be a successful whore." I giggled a little. "I want to know that men would be willing to pay for me. It's stupid. It's a little crazy I suppose. But yes, I want to do it."

He chuckled softly.

"Okay," he said, "back to work."

We worked through his list. And, actually, when I thought about it, the only thing I said "no" to flatly was animals. In fact, it kind of grossed me out that it was even something to consider.

When we were done we had a price sheet that looked like this:

Standard Package (Vaginal and Oral Sex - unlimited - overnight stay)

$500.00

Anal sex add $250.00

Facial/Hair Conditioner/Breast Lotion add $250.00

Bondage/Spanking add $250.00

Costumes add $100.00

"What do you think?" he asked.

"God David," I said, "do you really think I'm worth that kind of money?"

He laughed.

"I honestly don't know," he said, "but I do know how good you are."

I giggled softly.

"Okay," he said, "now let's talk about markets."

"Huh?" I replied, again showing my rapier wit in action.

"I actually have been thinking about this," he said, "and I am, after all," and here he buffed his fingernails on his imaginary vest, "Vice-President of Seven Boring Things for a Fortune 500 company."

I giggled and said "okay, I sit at the feet of the master," and matching deed to word, I slipped off of my chair and sat at his feet, my chin on his knee, giving him my best puppy dog eyes.

He responded in kind by lightly scratching behind my ears.

"Seriously, the way I see it you have a couple of possible market segments," he said.

I held my pose and batted my eyes. He chuckled and patted my head.

"Okay," he said, "I think you either go after the young professionals and catch their mommy issues or you go for the, well, for the 'mature' set and be the slightly younger woman."

I could feel my frown.

"Nobody my own age?" I asked.

"I don't think so," he said. "Remember, you're selling something new, and men your age, well, they have you or someone similar at home."

I thought about that for a bit and had to agree.

"The youngsters," he went on, "would be fantasizing that they had finally bagged that cougar or that Junior High School teacher they had a crush on."

I nodded thinking that made sense.

"Buuuuuut," he went on, dragging out the vowel, "the real money, I think, Is in senior executives. You want the 60 to 70-year-old set."

"Okay," I said, "I'll bite. Why?"

"If Mr. Vice-President shows up at the banquet with a 22-year-old Barbie Doll on his arm," he said, again patting my head, "then everybody knows. But if he shows up with a pretty MILF on his arm, well, they still think they know but they can't be sure. She might be a mistress or a long-lost sweetheart or something else."

"MILF?" I said.

"Mom I'd Like to Fuck," he said and gave my head another pat.

"Okay," I said again, "that makes sense. Annnnnd," my turn to drag out a consonant, "that's probably where the money is."

That earned me a scratch behind the ear.

"And you said you didn't have a head for business," he said.

I laughed at that.

"Okay manager," I said, "or I guess more properly Mister Pimp, sir. What next?"

He grinned.

"A trial run of course. We need a proof of concept run," he said.

I suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline, panic almost. Was I really going to do this?

"ummmmmmmm," there I was again, being brilliant, "when?"

"It's Friday tomorrow and I can get off so why not get you set up and we'll put that pretty ass on the street Sunday," he said, looking me in the eye.

"What about Saturday?" I asked.

"Well," he said with a grin, "I think you'll need Saturday to recover."

There was that rush of adrenaline when it hit me that we were really going to do this. And then I realized that it wasn't just adrenaline. I was so horny suddenly that I knew I was beyond wet, well into slick. And since I was still on the floor with my head on his knee I started squirming around to get into the proper blow job position.

I held his eyes with mine as my fingers were busy with his belt and then his button and then his zipper. As I worked his erection out of his pants and took him into my mouth I enjoyed that wonderful sound of a truly happy man. I knew what he liked after all of these years, and took my time. My tongue was tracing the head of his circumcised cock and very gently probing his urethra. I took him as deeply as I could until my gag reflex started kicking in and then, with my lips sucking gently and my tongue caressing his shaft.

I made it last, enjoying his soft moan as he started to get close. Slowly. Gently. My head bobbing so slowly. I made him wait when I tasted the first small drop of his precum, looking up at him under my raised eyebrows, enjoying his smile and the tightness around his eyes.

I went back to my rhythm then, bringing him to his climax. As I felt those first throbs of his ejaculation I pulled off, holding him in my hand, and accepting the wonderful gift of his facial. I closed my eyes, but then held him, guiding the stream of his semen. I was pulling him gently, milking him like a cow's udder, as his third contraction eased the flow.

When he was spent I used my thumbs to gently, very gently open the tip and touch it with my tongue, ensuring that I got that last tiny drop. With a shudder, he pulled away from the final intensity of what I was doing.

I looked up at him then, knowing he liked seeing me like this, and smiled as I opened my eyes.

"I love you," I said, "you do understand that, don't you?"

He smiled as his thumbs started gently working the semen into my skin like the protein-rich lotion it is. And I smiled back at him, closing my eyes. Enjoying the sensation.

We made love three times that day, each time better than the last. I was excited and nervous and he was enjoying it.

In part, it was adjusting to our new roles. It was one thing to have sex with one of his bosses to help him earn that promotion. Or even to pleasure a boss's wife. But this was different. My body would be for sale, well, for rent, and the decisions about who would have me would be completely out of my hands.

I was frightened. But I was excited. On some level, I felt more utterly female, more perfectly feminine than I ever had before.

I woke the next morning to the smell of bacon and coffee. I giggled when he walked in with a bed tray that we had used maybe 15 times in our marriage. But I enjoyed him helping me sit up and plump up the pillows behind me and then sitting the tray across my lap.

"Eat up baby," he said, kissing me softly, "spa day to get my moneymaker ready for work. Sunday night you're on the street."

I felt a rush of adrenaline as he said that.

"But," I said, sipping my coffee, "isn't Sunday sort of a weird night for me to start, well," and I couldn't help but blush and giggle, "working?"

"Actually, no," he said. "Think about it. Conferences and conventions tend to run Monday through Wednesday or Thursday so Sunday night is when your clients would be coming in. So Sunday night should work. After a long flight, they should be ready for some of this," and he gave my boob a squeeze.

So enjoyed my breakfast. Then I showered and ran a brush through my hair and we were off.

And what an amazing day it was.

We started at the spa where he got me the full treatment. A full body massage. Full steam bath and sauna session followed by a dip in cold water and then into hot again. I was pretty noodle kneed after an hour of that.

The next stop was the nail place where I luxuriated in the manicure and pedicure. He was there, the first time that had ever happened, working with the tiny Korean lady to select colors and designs to be painted on fingers and toes.

And then it was into the "backroom" where the wax torture was done. I was used to doing my own talking and it felt kind of funny hearing him tell them what to do as if I weren't there. I was surprised to realize that I found it exciting.

Next, I was stripped naked and on my back while they started the wax torture. I always thought of that old movie House of Wax when I did this. They started, as they always did, with my armpits and my mons. But then they didn't stop. When I looked up at David, who was standing there watching every step he smiled.

"I told them not one hair below your neck. Anywhere," he said.

It started sinking in what that meant when they started smoothing the warm wax on my arms as well as my legs. They did the tops of my fingers and toes too. Then came that soft pressure as they worked the cloth into the wax. I laid still for a few minutes as the wax cooled and David inspected me. He pointed out that light down of sideburns that I get sometimes. I'm one of those blondes who can be very hairy if left untended.

And then the real torture began. I had experienced the joys of legs and armpits and mons and labia hair removal. But the arms and fingers and feet were something new. I won't deny it. I yelped a LOT.

Then it was time to roll over and have the back done and it was the same story. Not a hair below my neck was to be left. They had me on all fours, my big ass up in the air, my knees parted, my hair hanging over my face because they had brushed it up to get to my neck. And my back. My ass. Hell, I didn't even know I HAD hair on my ass.

After the screaming was done, and I did yell quite a bit, David walked over and spread my cheeks while I was still on all fours.

"I think we'd better bleach this out too," he said casually.

I guess I had heard about getting your asshole bleached but I had never thought about it.

The chemical, for all I know there IS bleach involved, didn't burn but it did tingle. I had time to wonder if there had ever been a more embarrassing position invented for a woman. There I was, on all fours, with my ass cheeks taped apart (they used what felt like surgical tape to hold me spread) and my asshole tingling while my husband and my Korean nail and hair and, as it turned out, asshole lady talked about me as if I wasn't there.

Anyway, eventually, it was over and she washed or neutralized or whatever you do with asshole bleach, and I was allowed to stand up again.

One more session, this time my face, while the last of my sideburns and the very light down that some of us blondes form on our cheeks and upper lip was taken off to my shriek. That one REALLY hurt.

I breathed a sigh of relief when she handed me my clothes. My skin was a bit tender but nothing I couldn't stand.

The next stop was the hair salon. My favorite hairdresser is a perfectly beautiful man so obviously gay he flamed, and David told him I needed a new look. When he asked what he had in mind, what we were "going for" David told him, "make her a thousand dollar a night call girl." He grinned and went to work.

And damn but if he didn't pull it off. My hair was a shade lighter than I usually wore it, not much but just a hint. My nails, fingers, and toes, looked spectacular. I had suffered through the agony of having every hair below my neck waxed off but when I stood before the three-sided mirror I had to admit it, it was worth it. My nipples, always pale, were hard as I looked and when I touched them I got a little jolt that connected directly to my clitoris. I realized then just how excited I was.

Then we went shopping. I wasn't sure how things would work but I pictured spending the night with my customer (I wasn't yet thinking of them as "clients" as I do now). I figured I needed some undies that were sexy, well, and supportive too. Nylons and garter belts seemed right. Something, well, sexy but not too over the top. A couple of sets of undies and a couple of outfits seemed about right.

Of course, my pimp had the final say and it was the first time I can remember that David seemed to enjoy himself shopping.

We selected a black set, the bra sexy and lacy, plenty of cleavage on display, and underwires that cut but also lifted the girls. Panties to match that were sheer enough you could read a newspaper through them. The garter belt and nylons, with seams of course and a very delicate lace pattern set off that ensemble. I got a similar set in a very bright turquoise color and was ready to stop at that for the day.

David had other ideas though. And before he was done I had one more set. The reddest red. A long line strapless bra lifted the girls and gave, by actual measurement, a full seven inches of cleavage. The panties were sheer. The garter belt was lace and hugged my ample hips. Matching red nylons with a very light, very delicate lace pattern worked with them. My contribution was to let him know that I was not about to leave without some new red heels.

For outerwear, we settled on a black skirt, knee-length, with a decorative fringe that actually carried a bit below my knees. A bright turquoise blue top, loose to kind of hide my belly, and sleeveless to show off my arms that I think are pretty good. The second was a little black dress that the sales lady promised me solemnly would not wrinkle even if I just shoved it into a purse. Finally, a red-on-red ensemble, flirty skirt, and semi-sheer top, again, not obvious but also, well, sexy.

The last stop was the shoe store. In for a penny in for a pound as my gramma used to say. We settled on a pair of black moderate heels for the little black dress and a pair of black heels with a white top for the other outfit. I didn't want to get too high because I'm already 5'7" and didn't want to overwhelm my customers. And, of course, my new red heels that WERE high at a full 4 inches.

So there I was, ready to rock and roll as they say, with four bags and two boxes when I got home.

We had blown the day, and by the time we got home, it was early evening.