She is the Lottery Prize

She's The Lottery Prize

We needed $50,000 by Friday. We'd lose the house, our car, and possibly end up with one of us in jail. We had taken a chance offered by a friend, but it had tanked and we were left vulnerable and worried. The deal had gone belly up and we had tried everything we could think of to reverse things, but nothing seemed to help.

"We've only got one thing that is worth any money," she said with a sly grin that left no doubt what she was thinking of, and what she was referring to was something only she had and I didn't.

"But selling sex is illegal," I said with my hands held out palms up.

"But selling a date isn't. What happens on that date, isn't that up to the people involved?" she said. "Isn't that called 'consenting adults?'"

"Good point, Perry Mason. Do you think you could sell what you have one of that I don't?" I asked.

"If I couldn't, I have no right calling myself a woman. Of course, I could sell that," she said with confidence.

"You would do that?" I asked.

"I would do anything to keep the house, the car, and keep one or both of us out of jail. Of course, I would," she said. "Could I fuck for freedom? Abso-fucking-lutely," she said. She was a woman who liked sex and wanted it often.

We printed up lottery tickets that said, "Support the Charity of Your Choice. Win a night with my wife. Dining, Dancing, Delectation. $500 a ticket. Think big. Win big!"

The first name that came to mind was the richest man in town. Carson Prescott. I went to him with a book of tickets and explained the raffle. "How much does this charity need?" he asked.

"$70,000," I said, moving the amount up a bit.

"What if I buy all the tickets?" he said.

"Then I guess you would win," I replied.

"Who should I make the check out to?" he said, taking out a pen.

"The John and Marsha Charitable Trust," I said thinking fast as I could.

"Done," he said, handing me the check after he filled it out and signed it. "And what do I get with this win?" he asked.

"Dining, dancing, and whatever else you can convince the lovely lady to do," I said.

"Wonderful," he said.

"How many did you sell?" my wife asked when I came back in the house.

"One," I said.

"Just one? To who?" she asked.

"Carson Prescott bought all of them," I said.

"The Carson Prescott? The richest and most available bachelor in town?"

"The only one," I said. "He really wants a night with you. It is worth $70,000 to him," I said.

"70?" she said.

"I upped it," I said.

"That's an expensive night," she said.

"And it is up to you what he gets," I said.

"Is my pussy worth that?" she said.

"He thinks it is," I said, "at least the chance at it. He knew who you were. Said he saw you at functions in town," I said.

"That is a lot to live up to," she said.

"I've got confidence in you," I said.

He picked her up in a 40 foot limousine. They went to diner, dancing, then to his bedroom. The bed was nearly as large as the vehicle, and she described her night to me in luscious detail. "We ate lobster and filet and cherry cheesecake, then we danced so close I could feel his birthmark. He took me to his bed and put the joy of life so far into me that I could hear the angels sing," she said with a wistful smile.

"We did oral, anal, missionary, cowgirl, and some I can't even remember," she said with a sigh.

"So you enjoyed yourself?" I asked naively.

"Oh God yes," she replied in a whisper.

"So you just fucked for $70,000? So it was worth it?"

"To him or me?" she asked. "He's going to make a counter offer," she said. "He'll pay $200,000 for once a month. That's over $16,000 a month for one time in his bed that is as big as a 18 wheeler."

"You wouldn't mind being a prostitute?" I asked.

"I wouldn't mind being a rich kept woman," she said with a smile. "I was a poor whore before. Now I would be a very wealthy one. Would I be a whore if I only fucked one man for money, or a very happy rich kept lady?" she asked seriously. "I fuck you for free, gratis, and I don't even charge for maintenance, wear and tear, upkeep. You get a great deal."

She grinned. "I think we should accept his offer," she said. "That would be tax free," she added.

"You are becoming quite the business woman," I said.

"Well, I am beginning to see the value of a dollar," she said wisely. "Or the value in enjoying the dollar. Especially in a very king sized bed. Carson knows how to get the best out of a bed like that," she said with a grin.

I asked her to tell me about it, but she just grinned. "Someday I'll show you," she quipped.

When Mr. Prescott, Carson, picked her up for her second night in his very big king-sized bed it was once again in his limousine. What she hadn't told me before was that it not only had two seats, but it also had its own king-sized bed in the very back. What she hadn't told me before was that they made love all the way to the restaurant. This time they ate in his dining room and had pheasant under glass and apple cobbler.

Their second dessert was her in the huge bed with her on her back with her legs spread wide. Carson Prescott dined on her pussy with an expert tongue. You ask how I felt with my wife being dined on by another man? Not in jail. That is how.

The Prescott limousine would at our curb the first Friday of every month and would return her Sunday morning at nine.

At the end of the first month Carson made me an offer. For five million dollars she would change her address to his, give me conjugal visit privileges twice a month, and have at least two children for him. She would have a Bentley with a chauffeur if she chose and an account at every clothes store in the city.

She would wear diamonds, eat whatever she wanted, and have a maid, a secretary, and chef who would prepare whatever she wanted day or night, any time, any place, and for as many as she desired.

She could sleep with whoever she chose, anytime she chose, except for the times she had agreed to be in his bed: Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and occasionally on Sunday morning.

"Well, I would be a fool to turn it down," she said the day she told me about his offer. "You wouldn't want me to look like a fool would you?" she asked innocently. "You could buy a new house, a car, and start a business with it.

On my first visit to see the woman I am married to who lives in Carson Prescott's house, sleeps in Carson Prescott' bed, and every night takes Carson Prescott's erection in her vagina, I asked her how she was liking her new life. "What is not to like? I have everything I want, do what I like, oh, and I am writing a book." she said.

"It's about this woman who gets purchased by this rich man and he pays her husband for the rights to her," she said.

"Oh, like your life here?" I said.

"Well, it is based on it, isn't it?" she said. "So I guess you could say that, yes. It is very similar."

"It is the same story," I said.

"Well, the names are different,"she said, "and the location is not the same. It is in England. My book is about an English countess," she said, "who gets sold to a tycoon. White slavery and all. Not like today. It is much different," she said.

She led me to a house out behind the main residence. "You will visit me here," she said, ushering me in through the front door. "You can just come right here each time you come," she said. "You can park back here. Just come to the door and I'll be right down."

We went to a bedroom in the back. Small, but comfortable with a king-sized bed and a bath off to the side. There was a hot tub in the bathroom, next to the shower. The shower was a large open tiled area with two shower heads and a rack for towels, a locker room dressing area, and benches.

The bed was a four poster bed with a canopy and a bunch of pillows at the headboard. There was an oak desk against one wall and a walk-in closet that could hold a basketball team. Marsha sat on the bed and motioned me over. She kissed me and began unbuttoning her blouse. She let me watch her undress, standing and slipping out of her skirt. Bending slightly, she slid her panties over her hips and smiled as she tossed them to one side. She smiled and stretched out on her back and opened her legs, motioned me to her, then guided me on top of her.

Sex was always playful with Marsha and she helped me positioned my erection at her pussy and worked it in with her hand. We hadn't talked about Carson Prescott and we fucked without conversation at all. I began pushing into her steadily and increasing the speed gradually, holding it on every few strokes for a couple of seconds, making her groan as I did.

At that time she had been with Carson Prescott for a month. He had paid me for those days and she had called me every other afternoon just as she had promised. When he made the offer I told her it was up to her and she said, "Of course it is. I decide what is right for me. You decide what you do and I decide for myself. You know that."

Of course I knew that. She had made it clear from the start. This was not going to be a man-tells-a-woman-what-to-do relationship. I understood, if I wanted her in my life, there things I was going to have to expect. One of them was she liked sex with other people. I could say no, but she would end up with someone else.

It was just that simple. Not that it is easy. Not that it is a practice anyone else should undertake, but it is something I am doing and will continue to do as long as I have to in order to spend time with Marsha. Yes, I am more than a little crazy, but it is my life and my choice, and I will do it as long as she lets me in her bed.

The phone rang in my office and when I picked it up Carson Prescott's secretary said, "The boss would like to see you this afternoon."

"Okay," I said, "I get off at five."

"No," she said, "he needs to see you as soon as possible."

"Okay," I said, "I will be there in fifteen minutes." Because my company is my company, I could leave whenever I wanted. And since it was his money that put us back on track, I was on my way out of the door five minutes later.

When I walked in, he said, "This is not working out. She is killing me. She wants sex more often than coffee. I am a wreck." He picked up the agreement we had signed and tore it up. "I won't take my money back that I have already paid you, but you can have your wife back. She is wonderful, but she is fucking me to death," he said.

We loaded her things in our car, said her goodbyes to the staff, and pulled out of the long driveway. She looked over at me and smiled. "Well, it got us out of debt," she said with a shrug.

"And it was fun for you while it lasted, right?" I said. She nodded and grinned.

"It was mature of you to let that happen," she said. "It wouldn't have been easy for most men."

"I never said it was easy for me," I said. "Giving up your wife is not easy, but I have never heard of anyone giving up a lover because she was too hot, too ready to fuck your brains out. He said you were 'fucking him to death.' I guess I have it just too good. Fucking him to death would be the way to go for most men, so I just have it too good. I know you are the best a man can have. I love you and I truly know I have the lottery winner right here at home in my own bed. I am not having another lottery. I have won already. If you want to be a professional, let me know. It is your decision not mine, but then you already know that.

"I do, but my days as a housewife hooker are over," she said with a smile. "My sex is reserved for you, take it or leave it." I said I would take, happily.