Hubby's Whore Ch. 07

[Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, I did it again. The story of Tricia and David and her entry into the world's oldest profession has captivated me since it first sprung, full-blown one morning, like Athena from Zeus's brow. But other things capture my OCD-damaged attention span, and it's been too long since I checked in on Tricia and David and her new life. So let's peek, shall we, and see how things are going.]

The hotel had a big selection of stores on the ground level, almost a miniature mall. The rooms and the meeting areas began on the second floor. There was a Victoria's Secret, catering to corporate wives I assumed, and next to it a knock-off - Victoria's Big Secret - that catered to those of us who no longer fit into a size zero.

Oh, who am I kidding? I NEVER fit into anything smaller than a size 8.

For the luncheon, I selected a cream-colored lacy bra and matching granny panties, something that would show my boobs and their bruises while not being too obvious.

The obvious would wait for the banquet. For that, I selected a long line, strapless bra that would lay my tits on the wireframe, fully displayed. A matching pair of string thong panties (what I always called buttfloss) with a triangle of material that fits between my legs so sheer I could read a newspaper through it. A lacy garter belt and sheer nylons with a seam up the back completed my underwear needs.

I had more fun at the clothing store, a local shop, not a chain, with the plebian name Betty's.

For the luncheon, I selected a jumpsuit, very modest, in a flesh color that made me look naked. I was covered in material from my throat, where a turtleneck-style collar covered my neck, all of the way down to the flowing legs where the material brushed the tops of my shoes and the cuffs included finger loops leaving only my fingers exposed. The top, though, was cut with a trapezoidal-shaped opening so that I was bare from right at the top of the bra to my shoulders.

When I tried it on I couldn't stop the laugh. "Oh Chester," I thought, "how are you going to explain this."

The dress for the banquet was even more revealing. It was floor-length and fuck-me red, but left my shoulders bare. A collar of material connected the front and back via a thread so thin it was almost invisible but strong enough to keep the thing from falling off. The side was slit to my waist, showing ALL of my leg with each step.

I didn't feel guilty. Hell, I got him out for under $500 for the whole works.

I had pretty much blown the morning by then, so I went back to the room to "freshen up."

I showered and then spent the best part of an hour on my face and hair. By the time I was done, I looked like a good suburban wife ready for date night. My hair was up, not country and western singer big, mom-going-to-her-son's-wedding big, waved, with a sexy little curl over one eye. The makeup was the same, nicely enhancing but with no wild colored dark eye shadow or butterfly wing eyelashes.

The jumpsuit was perfect for this event. I looked naked, but I was completely covered except for the trapezoid of skin on display from my shoulders to the tops of that new bra. The little circular bruises were very much on display. I gave a thought to slapping myself to give my cheek a little color and maybe even a bit of swelling, but I decided that would be too much.

I texted Chet - "when and where for lunch?"

And then waited. I turned on the room TV, finding Fox News to see what was happening in the world today.

It was noon, straight up, when my phone buzzed with - "The Oneida Room, now."

So I took one more look, unnecessarily touched my hair, made sure my nipples were pointed straight ahead, and headed down to find the "Oneida room," wondering who in the hell named these things.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and asked. My heels clicked on the tile floor, and my stride was firm and confident. Hell, I felt confident. I was figuring things out.

I got the directions and found the room, a big room. It was one of those convertible rooms with the tracks for slideaway walls visible at about 16-foot intervals. The room was dotted with round tables, each set for 10, so my quick count estimated there would be 200 people here if all the seats were filled, and it looked like they would be.

"Jesus," I thought, "big audience for my debut as a fantasy wife."

I looked around and then moved, following the edge of the room, and took two steps up onto the stage so I could see better.

I felt like every eye was on me although if I'm being honest, most of the conversations went on, not paying any attention to me at all.

But it felt that way and I arched my back a little, putting the girls on display.

I finally spotted him, in a group of a dozen or so, mostly men but with a few women. The professional women were obvious because they were dressed like the professional men in dark suits with white shirts and bright power ties or, in one case I happened to notice, a bright red power scarf that made me think of wearing something similar to cover a hickey when I was in high school.

I walked over to him and broke into the conversation by taking his upper arm in both of my hands, kissing his cheek, and saying, loud enough to be heard by the group, "There you are, baby. I was beginning to think I had gone to the wrong room."

I hung onto his arm with my hands, looking up at him, deliberately ignoring the rest of the group.

He took a couple of seconds to recover but then picked up on the scene. I guess you don't get to be an executive without being reasonably quick on the uptake.

He grinned and kissed me and then turned to the group.

"This is my wife, Pam," he said, and then worked his way around the circle, making introductions that bounced off of me. I had my best I-don't-really-care-who-you-are smile on. I did remember Michael, tall and ridiculously good-looking, very young, I guessed no more than 40, to be in this group.

And there was the woman in the red scarf, introduced as Margaret. Up close, she was much older than she seemed from across the room. It was obvious she spent a lot of time, and a lot of money, on her appearance. And the knowing smile she gave me made me pretty damn sure I was right about the reason for the scarf. Any doubt at all was shredded when a handsome young man, I guessed him not yet 30, brought her a drink and then stood beside her, quietly, his hand very light on her hip

If he wasn't a gigolo I'm not a whore.

Lunch was exactly what those lunches always were. I had been to dozens with David. There was the small talk about subjects of precisely zero interest to me. Then there was the seating with that awkward bit of decision-making while places and pecking orders were established. Lunch was rubber chicken, mashed potatoes with a gravy that was probably purchased in 55-gallon drums poured over them, overcooked peas, soggy salad, rolls that bounced, and, praise Jesus, iced tea that was pretty good.

The conversation was as uninteresting as I had expected, but I hung onto Chester's every word, ignoring everyone else, as I had learned to do working my way up the corporate ladder. Every once in a while I met Margaret's gigolo's eyes and we shared a knowing smile.

But I gushed. I laughed at silly jokes. I interjected the occasional, "Oh, that was perceptive" or some other pablum.

My hand, under the tablecloth, found his thigh making him jump a little and making me giggle.

Luncheon over, I kissed him and patted his ass.

I stopped in the bathroom to pee, not quite ready to head back up to the room. As I started washing my hands one of the other wives came in. I dug for her name but my memory would not spit it out.

She came up to me, her eyes on the bruises I was showing off, and she took both of my hands in hers like I was her long-lost sister.

"Are you all right, Pam?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I replied, still struggling for her name.

"Well," and she looked down at my boobs, "it looks like things might get too rough."

I deliberately lifted my boobs and gave them a shake.

"These?" I asked.

"Well, he's a passionate man and he enjoys them," I said, smiling.

Then I gave them another shake.

"Almost as much as I do," I added.

Her eyes got big.

I laughed and stepped closer.

"Try it, honey," I said, "let your tits out and for Christ's sake get rid of that fucking girdle," I added, slapping her ass. It was hard under the nylon and whalebone or whatever the rigid lines I felt were.

She yelped and took a step back. I had seen the word "shocked" written many times but this was the first time I ever saw a truly "shocked" look.

I laughed.

And the name came to me.

"LaVerne," I said, "for crying out loud, lighten up. Come on up to my room. We'll have a beer, I'll fire up a joint, and we'll get you out of that girdle and with any luck at all get you laid tonight."

I had been making fun, wanting to get rid of her, and was surprised when she smiled and said, "Well, I don't have anything else to do until the banquet."

"Well then," I said, grinning, "Come on new best friend," and took her hand and led her out of the bathroom.

"How is it I never met you before?" she asked, as we got on the elevator.

"Because this time I told him if he didn't take me I'd be fucking the pool boy," I said, making her giggle and blush at the same time.

In the room, I opened my magic bag and took a joint out of my cigarette case.

"Do you mind?" I asked and she smiled in reply and just shook her head.

It was pretty obvious she was nervous and excited.

So we smoked the pot for a few hits, it's VERY good pot, saying nothing.

"So," I said, the delightful itching behind my eyes letting me know I was nicely high, "do you want to get laid tonight?

She giggled and said, "Yes."

"Well, let's get you out of those clothes and see what we have to work with," I said

Her eyes got a little big at that and she didn't move.

So I stood and turned to face her.

"Up," I said, offering my hands.

She stood, giggling and blushing.

"Now," I said, my fingers steady as I started on the buttons of her blouse.

"Pam," she started but I slapped her, lightly but enough to sting, and said, "Hush."

Her eyes were big as I finished unbuttoning the blouse and tugging it free from her slacks.

She was an attractive woman. Her hair was dark and streaked with silver threads, and her blue eyes were an interesting contrast. Her bra, surprising me not at all, was a white cotton, heavy-duty thing that was probably bulletproof as well.

"Oh fuck," I said and buttoned her back up.

"Come on girlfriend," I said, "we're going shopping."

Back down at the stores I had visited earlier, I caught Valerie, anyway, that was the name on her name badge, and said, "My new best friend here wants to get laid tonight so set her up."

I turned to LaVerne, kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, "Spend some of your husband's money, honey. He'll like the results."

I got a Coke and sat in one of the chairs in the changing room area to see what they would come up with.

What they come up with was pretty damn good.

They had her in green, a green SO green that if you stared at it for a while when you looked away things had a sort of pink halo around them. It hugged her body. It clung nicely to her shape, and her shape was pretty good really. She was heavy-chested, and the bra they had fitted her with left about eight inches of cleavage on display. The stiletto heels did good things for her legs and her walk as she took a few paces, turned, and walked back.

"Nice," I said, "but what else ya got?"

LaVerne giggled, I'm pretty sure she was enjoying the attention, and they went back into the changing room.

I sipped at my Coke, enjoying this very much. It was very good pot.

The second outfit was purest sex. It was white, almost a wedding gown, cut almost to the navel with some sort of pasted-on bra I assumed. The slit up the side exposed her leg past her hipbone every time she moved. And she had no panties on, that was obvious.

"YESSS!!!" I said, "That one, and I PROMISE you get laid tonight by somebody."

LaVerne was blushing but I saw that her eyes were shiny with her excitement.

She paid and had the packages delivered to her room and I took her hand and led her to the next stop. At the spa, I told the receptionist, "One for wax. Not one hair left on her body below the neck."

LaVerne's eyes got big but she smiled and let the tiny Vietnamese woman lead her away.

I waited and had another Coke, feeling a mild caffeine buzz join the pot high, until she came out after about half an hour.

Her skin was pink all over, a look I understood well.

"Okay, sweet cheeks," I said, feeling like I had just done a very good deed, "now go up to your room, take a nap, set your alarm for 4:30, the shindig is at 6:00, shower, and then bring your ass to my room. Mama Pam (I almost said Tricia but caught myself) will finish you up then."

She smiled and said, "Okay."

We shared a ride in the elevator. When it stopped at her floor she turned and kissed me, a pretty good kiss I thought, before she left.

Yep, I figured I had done a good deed all right.

Upstairs I took my own little beauty rest.

I set my alarm for 4:00, got up, showered, and did my face and hair, but didn't put on any clothes. I wanted my clothes to be nice and fresh when I made my entrance at the banquet.

I answered the knock on my door at a little after five and giggled at her big eyes when she saw me.

"What?" I asked, big-eyed to match her look, "Never seen a nekkid woman before?"

She giggled then and stepped in.

"Just myself," she managed, her eyes shifting between deliberately looking away and openly staring.

"Come here," I said, and when she did I found the button at the neck of her gown and undid it. That allowed the whole thing to come apart.

I was surprised. She was naked under the dress. Her breasts were firmer than I had thought, and there was no pasted-on bra.

She looked good. Hell, she looked damn good in that buxom, slightly over-padded way of a 1950s movie star. And I was glad I had told the wax artist to take EVERY hair off of her body below the neck. It was a GOOD look on her. Her pussy had a round, firm, mons Veneris, the hemispherical Mound of Venus at the entry to her sex. Her lips were full and prominent, and there was no hint of dangling inner lips. She looked seriously good.

When I had her turn around her ass looked just as good, firm and round and the woman had absolutely GREAT legs.

"Okay, girlfriend," I said, "Sit here and let Mama Pamela make you pretty."

She sat, naked, on the little desk chair that I lowered all the way down to give me a better angle. I started on her face, giving her cheekbones just a tiny hint of accent, but spending most of my time on her eyes.

I think sexy eye makeup is the best thing a woman can do for her face. I started with a liner, very black, with tiny points at the corners. I selected a pale blue shadow, not heavy, just enough to make you focus on her eyes. I thought about it for a second and put a pair of false eyelashes on her too, very long, very exaggerated, what they call butterfly wing lashes. They worked on her round face and when I stopped to admire my work I was well pleased.

Then I went to work on her hair, picking and brushing until it was big and thick, not QUITE Dolly Parton obvious, but big and thick and exotic looking nonetheless.

She was smiling.

"Well?" I said, finished.

"You're a magician," she said, her smile making me think of the phrase "ear to ear."

"One more thing," I said, reaching down and masturbating gently, not wanting to cum, but wanting to stimulate my natural lubricants with their pheromone-laden scent. When I felt myself getting slick I slipped a finger in and reached for her.

Her eyes got big and she took a step back.

"Stop it," I said, giggling, "this is better than ANY perfume."

She stopped but her eyes stayed big as I reached and rubbed my wet finger behind her ear.

I reached down again and this time laid a wet, slick trace, looking like a snail's track, between her breasts.

She took a deep breath and started smiling. "Oh God," she said, "I'll smell like pussy."

"Of course," I said, "as a woman should."

My finger visited my pussy once more, and this time I dipped all four fingers in before running them through her hair.

I giggled and got my hair pick to fix her hair again, stepped back, and said, "You're ready."

She went to the mirror and looked.

"Oh fuck," she said, giggling, "you're a miracle worker."

She turned and started to kiss me but I held her at arm's length. "Nuh-uh," I said, "I ain't messin' up my handiwork."

She giggled and beamed and pulled the dress on, something that took just a few seconds given her lack of underwear.

"You are stunning," I said, and I meant it.

Then I started on myself. I liked that she watched as I did my makeup and hair. Then I worked into the bra, putting my tits with their bruises on full display, and the buttfloss thong. Finally, I dropped the fuck-me red dress over my head, got the collar with the two thin suspension threads lined up, pushed my feet into the matching red stilettos, and did a turn for her

"You are stunning," she said, mimicking what I had said.

I laughed and said, "Come on girlfriend. Let's make our entrance. We can be the Christmas spirit in red and green."

"God," she said, "I feel naked."

"You ARE the next thing to naked," I said, and took her hand and led her out of the room.

We made an entrance, as I had planned. The lights were still on, and there was that general murmur of a room full of people involved in their various conversations.

"Stop and hold," I said, taking her hand before she could just walk straight in, "give the peasants a chance to drink this in."

She giggled at that, but I noticed she did stand straight, shoulders back, boobs out.

She looked good.

I spotted Chester across the room and said, "Come on, girlfriend."

We made our way through the crowd, drawing looks as we went, making me smile.

As it happened, Chester was standing with LaVerne's husband.

"Hi honey," she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him, smiling, and saying, "Pam, meet Fred, Fred, Pam."

I smiled and shook his hand and then did the honors the other way, "LaVerne, Chester, Chester, LaVerne."

We found a table, a round 8 top, and did the introductions thing around the table. Dinner was okay, the keynote speaker had me struggling to stay awake, but the band, once it set up, was pretty good.

"Come on, honey," I said, standing and taking Chester's hand, "dance with me."

"You know I don't dance," he said, looking up at me with big eyes.

So I turned to Fred. "Come on, big guy," I said, extending my hand, "dance with me."

He stood, very tall, and took my hand.

On the floor something slow was playing, I didn't recognize the song, and he took me in the classic slow dance position, my right hand in his left, my left hand on his shoulder, and his right on my hip. When we stepped off it quickly became apparent that unlike my "husband" Chester, Fred was a very good dancer.

The next song was something very slow and I wrapped both of my arms around his neck, pulling him down, going up on my toes, molding my body to his, my mouth right at his ear, and said, "Listen, big guy, either pay attention to your wife, who worked her ass off to look good for you tonight, or I'm going to take her home myself, put on a strapon, and give her what she needs." After that little speech, I nipped at his ear hard enough to draw a little yelp.

"Annnndddddd," I said, drawing the word out deliberately, "You might want to try being a little rough with her. Sometimes a girl needs that and she does seem a little jealous of my boobs."