tagLoving WivesKlassy Lady

Klassy Lady


Chloe and I, in our mid-thirties, have been married for eleven years, since we graduated college together. No kids yet, and may never have them. Right now, we're having fun, and we don't feel that our lifestyle is "settled" enough yet for children. This is the story of how that lifestyle started.

Chloe teaches high school English, mostly the advanced placement courses. She's good friends with a lot of the other young women who teach at her school. They like to go for drinks after the last bell.

One day, with two empty margarita pitchers sweating on the table, the subject of posing nude came up. "Would you or wouldn't you?" The question bounced around amongst them. Once they sorted themselves into who would and who wouldn't, someone pointed out that the local college art program recently had advertised for models.

The drunkest of them swore that she would go in for it.

Chloe, who usually holds her liquor well, swore that she would, too.

The other woman chickened out, protesting that she couldn't even remember what she said.

Chloe doesn't chicken out. And thus, one evening, she stepped into a college art class and dropped her robe. What did that class see? Her brown hair, of course, cut short and chic. Her pale, heart-shaped face. Blue-gray eyes. The dusting of freckles on her nose. And they saw every inch of her petite, willowy, milk-white body.

At that point, she glanced around, and only then noticed one of her former students: a dirty-blondish, Brad Pittish, motorcycle-riding artist that she once confessed to me she had a crush on.

I was reading in bed later when she climbed in and told me all about it.

"So I thought, okay, I can be self-conscious for the whole next hour, and worry about whether he can see between my legs or not, or I can get it out of the way and relax, and pose like I'm supposed to."

I kissed her cheek. "Mm. So?"

"So I wasn't lewd or obvious or anything, but, uh, he got a really good look at me. A really good look."

I nodded.

She went on: "In fact--"

I shot her a sideways glance.

"Well, we went for coffee afterward. He told me I have beautiful labia."

"Oh really?" Went for coffee afterward? I kind of felt that a line had been crossed. I also was suddenly, ragingly erect. I set the book I had been reading down over my lap. I hoped it would hide the tent I was making of the bedsheet.

"Yeah." She blushed. "He said that if I didn't mind posing for him privately, he'd like to do more detailed studies."

"Of your labia?"

Chloe snatched my book up. "Oho! What have we here?" She gave me a playful swat with it. "You're turned on!"

That's how it began--our first serious discussion about sex with other people. It lasted all through the night, and wasn't even over when we kissed goodbye to go our separate ways to work. We met for lunch and talked about it more. And more when I got home.

The more we hashed it over, the clearer it became that we both would like it better if I stayed monogamous and she had the freedom to be with other men.

No doubt, it's easier to understand that decision from her point of view than mine, so here are my thoughts on the matter: Chloe's sexuality is beautifully complex. Buoyant and rambunctious, unashamed and unafraid, curious and filled with wonder. No one man could possibly make all her facets shine, and I'm painfully aware of parts of her that don't find full expression in our relationship. The worst thing about that is, we found each other early in our lives, and she's never had a chance to explore some of those parts. She'd only been with two other guys before me. Both were steady boyfriends. She's been completely faithful so far, but I feel that, at least once, she needs to go crazy, have no limits, and follow her pleasures as far as they will take her.

We decided that letting her friend study her labia would be a perfect first step. Surely he just wanted to get her pants off. Chloe was looking forward to a good, rowdy lay. I was excited for her.

Only it didn't work out that way. The artist went through with his meticulous sketches of Chloe's labia. She brought one home, and I have to say, it's impressive. When he finished with those, he didn't seem to know what to do. Very uncharacteristically for Chloe, she didn't seize the moment either. I think they both got shy. One's nervous awkwardness probably fed off the other's, in a downward spiral. If I'd been there, I would have tried to help them along, but I wasn't.

Chloe was pretty depressed when she got home. She was also fifty dollars richer.

"He insisted I take it," she told me. "My modeling fee or something. Whatever. At least I got something for my trouble. Woo-hoo. Come on, I'll buy you dinner."

* * * * * * * * * *

After our initial disappointment, we had another long talk. We were both in firm agreement that we still wanted to go forward with Chloe's sexual adventuring.

Chloe suggested that I script a fantasy for her to act out. That would give me a hands-on role. We didn't just want this to be her thing. We wanted to build it into our love, intimacy, and marriage as something shared between us.

"Here's a great resource for you." She showed me a website, literotica.com.

"Huh," I said. "That's where you published those stories you wrote a while back, right?"

She beamed at me. "Right! Now check this out." She indicated a category of stories called Loving Wives. "Thousands of stories, all about the kinds of things we've been discussing."

"Wow!" I stared at the screen, taken aback. "So this is like its own sub-genre of erotica. That's pretty specific."

"Most erotica is. And it breaks down even more specifically."

"How?" The idea of our fantasy was so new to me that I couldn't think beyond the fact that she'd be having sex with other men.

She moved out of the chair and let me sit. Leaning on the chair-back, she watched over my shoulder while I clicked around and browsed the titles.

"Well," she said, "there's the little white wifey and the hung black stud fantasy."

I laughed. "Okay, I can see that."

"There's poker night fantasy, where the wife starts out as hostess and ends up getting gangbanged."

Now I really laughed. "And there are whole bunches of stories that cluster around these scenarios?"

"Uh-huh! Oh, you bet."

"Go on."

"There's the cream pie fantasy--letting other guys come in your wife, then you eat her."

"Aaww! You're shitting me!"

"I shit you not." Chloe scrunched her nose.

"Definitely not for me!" I said.

"Anyway," Chloe went on, "just browse around. Take notes. If something turns you on, maybe you'll want to write it in my script. If something makes you feel jealous or uncomfortable or turned off, let's talk about it."

I rose out of the chair and swept her up in an embrace. I stared into her eyes and said, "Chloe, you are too cool."

She giggled.

We kissed.

She said, "I love you," and I whispered it back in her ear.

"Oh darling," she sighed. "All right." She pulled away. "Come on, now. Get to work. Write me something. I'm rarin' to go!"

I sat right down and started reading. A lot more quickly than I expected, I zeroed in on just the kind of fantasy that I knew would rock our world to the core.

* * * * * * * * * *

Chloe's face turned whiter than the papers in her hand. Her mouth hung open as she read. When she finally recovered her composure, she gave her short brown hair a little toss and said, "Leave it to you. The most extreme version!"

I grinned. "What were you hoping for? Picking up some guy in a disco?"

She looked again at the script in disbelief. "How about just something legal? That seems like a minimal, reasonable expectation. If I got arrested, even if I got off with a warning, I would lose my job for sure! And you might, too, for that matter. Or we'd have to move, or something."

"Yes," I agreed. "Those are real considerations."

"You really want me to do--" She waved the script. "--this?"

"Chloe, that's the script I wrote for you. If you don't want to do it, if you find it too intimidating--"

"Hey! Whoa!" she interrupted. "Whoa! Intimidating?"

I went on: "You don't have to do it. But that's my absolute, ultimate fantasy of you. Yes. I do want you to do it."

"Well!" She slapped the script down on the table. "Then I will!" She turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.

I gave her bottom a quick pat. She wiggled it, and winked at me over her shoulder as she left the room.

I picked up the script, and flipped through the pages, smiling. The details weren't important; the gist of it was for Chloe to work for a weekend in a brothel.

How did I come up with that? I didn't realize it at first, but the fifty bucks from her artist friend had dropped into my subconscious and taken root, a turn-on waiting to explode. It's not hard to understand. She got naked and let him stare for hours at her pussy. Then he gave her money for it. I got a strange thrill, later that evening, when she paid for our dinner with the fruits of her labor. I think the fantasy had already grown into something full-blown in the back of my mind, when I found the literotica stories about whoring wives. I recognized "it" instantly. That was what I wanted for her. And I knew she'd be up for it. Chloe's brave. She loves rising to challenges.

Now, I had her word she would go through with it. And like I said, she doesn't chicken out.

In the days that followed, she shoved aside the worries she had expressed to me. Other concerns occupied her now.

"I'll need to get in shape for this."

Her idea of "getting in shape" was like a fantasy, all by itself!

We had lots of sex, in all kinds of ways. She spent a lot of time masturbating, playing with toys, etc. She did other things, too. Stretching exercises, yoga. She's actually run a marathon before, and she stepped up her running as though she were training for another--"Endurance," she explained. She mentioned that she was doing Kegels constantly, whenever she could. It was like she was in training for a sexual olympics.

As for birth control, Chloe has always preferred the diaphragm to pills or patches. Looking forward to her new adventure, she decided to update to a cervical cap, which is smaller and can be left in longer than a diaphragm.

She even went out and bought some slutty things to wear.

"I'm ready," she said, one night in the dark, as we lay in bed together. "Are you?"


"Soooooo, any special place you have in mind?"

I said, "No. This guy at work, he's in sales. Travels all the time. Supposedly, anywhere he goes, he can always find the whorehouse."

"You haven't talked to him yet?"

"I guess it's time I did."

Chloe snuggled close to me. "I guess it's time you did."

* * * * * * * * * *

When I broached the subject, Steve, my coworker, turned out to be very casual and informative about it. There were times when I couldn't believe we were discussing whorehouses instead of business as usual. Of course, I didn't mention the part about my wife; I let him think it was for me.

"What're you looking for?" he asked. "Top of the line, or bottom of the barrel?"

"Closer to the bottom. You know, a little sleazy." Well, that was the kind of place I had envisioned.

Steve nodded vigorously. "Goddamn, ain't that the only way to fly! I'm impressed you said that. Let me tell you: for a good ol' fashioned, trashy whorehouse, Klassy can't be beat. That's Klassy with a k. It damn sure ain't classy with a c!"

I smiled. "Tell me about it."

"Good mix of girls. As for customers, they get all types. Busy, busy place. The girls do what they can to keep on top of it, but sometimes there's a wait. R. J.--that's the owner--works 'em awful hard. Turnover's pretty high, for just that reason. I'd love to recommend someone, but all the girls I know are prob'ly gone!"

I thought about Chloe jogging for endurance. It sounded like endurance was exactly what she'd need.

"One other thing I'll mention." Steve leaned closer, with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "And this is the best part!"

I couldn't wait to hear it.

"I don't know where R. J. got it, or how the hell he could afford it, but he's got this gizmo that is state-of-the-art in HIV testing. Accurate as hell, and just as fast. He can test you right there on the spot! I actually read about the thing in Popular Mechanics. Nanotechnology, they called it."

I raised my eyebrows. "Go on."

"You pass, you ride bareback. Safer than if you used a fuckin' rubber someplace else!"

My breathing suddenly grew ragged. The thought of all those guys "barebacking"--having unprotected sex--with Chloe blew my mind. She lubes up very, very nicely when she gets excited. As far as I'm concerned, she has the hottest, wettest, sweetest, most responsive little pussy in the world! Just thinking about other guys enjoying that with her, skin-on-skin, without some condom in the way, almost made me excuse myself for a bathroom break.

"Well, my friend, any other questions?"

Tuesday night, I drove out to the place, following his directions. It was some ninety miles away, in another town entirely. Chloe sat beside me, silent, as we cruised through the night. She'd put on a simple, short black party dress--no bra or panties underneath. One unzip, and she'd be naked. We expected that this R. J. character might want to "audition" her. In the back seat, an overnight bag was full of the slutty outfits she had purchased, in case she needed to audition those as well.

Neither of us asked if the other one was scared. Of course we were. Both of us. Out of our minds.

I felt her fingers in my hair. I looked over, and she smiled at me.

"I love you," she mouthed.

The neighborhood turned out to be some kind of industrial district. Klassy wasn't hard to find. It was kind of a dump, but then all the buildings looked a bit rundown. My memory of the details is hazy at this point, probably because my experience of them was hazy, too. I could hardly breathe or think or anything.

What I remember next is a small reception parlor. Chloe and I did our best to sit up straight on a sagging red sofa that had lost its legs. The overnight bag rested between us.

R. J. faced us in a wheeled desk chair he rolled out from his office. He was medium-dark black, medium height (about 5'10", about what I am), bald, and extremely muscular. Not bulky, more defined. The way Chloe put it to me on our drive back home was, "He's damn well-sculpted. He's fucking hot!"

"If possible," Chloe said, in her best no-nonsense voice, "I'd like to arrange to work here for this coming weekend."

R. J. regarded us. "Keep talking."

"Is it possible?" Chloe asked.

"Ha! Anything's possible. I want to know where y'all are coming from."

"Well, this is a whorehouse isn't it?"

R. J.'s teeth showed in a grin. "That's right."

"Well, I want to be a whore."

Chloe had delivered her lines clearly, with the careful enunciation of an English teacher and a totally straight face. I felt like our chances were good of pulling this off.

R. J. looked at me. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm her husband."

"Yes, but what are you doing here? What do you want out of this?"

"I want to help her make it happen." Then I added, "And I'd like to watch."

"Ah." R. J. nodded. "Well, folks, believe it or not, I may be able to accommodate you both." He nodded at Chloe. "I'm short a girl, so I can use the help." He turned his eyes on me. "You, on the other hand, would be here as a customer. You wanna watch all weekend?"

I nodded.

"It'll cost." He turned to Chloe. "Normally, we split the cost of a date down the middle. And I keep fifteen percent out of your tips. What I'll do, I'll adjust our cuts to seventy-thirty, and keep an extra ten percent on tips."

Chloe nodded. I don't think either of us knew what kind of money we were talking about, but as long as she got paid something, for the purposes of the fantasy, we didn't really care how much.

"Okay," she said. "So that's settled. What else?"

R. J. held up a hand. "Hold on. Nothing's settled. I said I may be able to accommodate you. We still got a ways to go before it's a done deal." He motioned for Chloe to stand.

She did.


She reached back and undid the zipper. She let the dress fall around her feet. In black high-heel pumps, she stepped out of it and kicked it aside. She stood before us with not a stitch of clothing on her, except those shoes. The parlor's chandelier cast a yellowy glow over her small, pale body.

R. J. motioned her forward.

She stepped right up to him.

He looked around her, at me. "You watching this? Because I need to judge if you can handle it this weekend."

My mouth was almost too dry to speak. "I'm watching. Go ahead."

Chloe's breasts are small and pointy. R. J. pulled her closer and covered one with his mouth. I heard her sharp intake of breath. He covered her other breast with his palm, and ran his hand over it until his fingers found the little nipple, which he proceeded to stimulate into quivering stiffness.

She put her hands on his bald black head. She held and caressed it while he sucked.

He gently pushed her back. His mouth slurped off her nipple. "Mm. Tasty."

He ran a finger over her close-trimmed strip of pubic hair. "Lose all of this." He felt down around her pussy lips. "Yeah. Full wax job. I want you bald and smooth. Like a nectarine. I bet you're just as juicy, too." Without any further warning, he slipped a finger up inside of her.

Chloe's whole body blushed beet red as he proceeded to probe her in the most intimate way. She panted and gasped as his finger squished around.

He pulled it out. "Yep. Juicy!" He found her clit, and pinched and played with it a while. She shuddered. He was getting to her. How close was she to coming? He turned her around. "Bend over, honey. No, you don't have to touch your toes or anything, just lean forward there a bit. Yeah, like that."

Chloe complied.

"Here, help me out here." He placed her hands on her buttocks. "Hold that open for me, wouldya?"

Chloe pulled herself open for him as best she could.

He inserted the slippery finger in the little starburst of her anus.

"Ah!" she exclaimed.

"That's it. We're doin' fine. Mm." He withdrew the finger. He stood out of the chair. "Follow me. I wanna get you tested."

Chloe followed, naked, on high heels. I walked behind. Of course, she tested negative for HIV.

R. J. went back out toward the parlor. "Let me tell Jana I'll be occupied." When he returned, he explained, "Jana's our receptionist. As you can see, we're kinda slow tonight. Okay, come along you two." He led the way up some creaky wooden stairs, down an equally creaky hallway. He opened a door, and ushered us both through.

A ceiling lamp shed meager light that didn't quite reach the edges of the room--amazingly, since the room itself was pretty meager. Three huge panels of mirror occupied most of one wall. The double bed clearly had seen much rough use. There were a beat-up dresser and matching nightstand. A red sofa matched the one in the parlor, except this one had legs. A scarred wooden chair. Two small, threadbare Persian rugs lay on the floor, and I couldn't help noticing that one had been positioned directly in front of the chair. Otherwise, the bare wood floor was mostly bare of varnish.

R. J. went to the mirror panels, and somehow pulled the middle one back, to reveal a closet-like space. He tapped the back of the mirror. "One-way. That's where you'll be," he told me. "Best seat in the house." He moved the wooden chair into the cubby. "Whyn't you give it a test run."

I stepped across the threshold.

"Notice," he said, pointing past me, "that back panel opens onto a service stairway. Leads down to the parlor. That's the door you'll use this weekend to get in and out."

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