The Transformation of Betty Ch. 12

Although sharing my wife with Bill on a regular basis fulfilled my (and her) need to have her treated as a slut, seeking out other adventures became, at times, difficult and time consuming. Sally at the strip club ... her lesbian Domme lover ... moved across country to go to college, and neither Bill nor I could count on going out of town for business on any consistent basis. And there's only so many times I could take her to the slut dress shop to have her whore herself for a free dress ... after all, how many dresses could she wear? But once my wife's willingness to be a whore became apparent, a new fantasy germinated in my head ... arranging somehow for her to be one on a more consistent basis. And not just some common street whore fucked by god-knows-who, but something classier and more in the mold of a call girl.

I knew what I wanted, but was unsure how to set it up. My ideal was to arrange for her to be an on-call whore for a hotel. But I had to solve the problem of contacting hotel managers without knowing anyone. And I had to be concerned about being discrete. I surely couldn't have my wife taken out to dinner by some client dressed as a slut and have someone we knew see her ... especially someone at the university where I taught. At the same time, the desire to whore my wife in a consistent way had reached the point where I was willing to take some chances. I knew I was entertaining a dangerous idea, but I had become apparently like a moth drawn to the proverbial flame. Like my wife, once I started down the road of making her a slut, I only wanted more, only wanted to cross the next line.

I honestly don't know if others who share their wives experience the same desire, especially if they have a wife like mine who seems to set no limits. How many husbands with slut wives push ahead like the drug addict who needs a higher dose to achieve the next high. But that seemed to characterize me, and achieving that next high required that my wife be a whore regardless of risks.

I talked things over with Bill beforehand, and not having any issues of discreteness to concern him, he was all for it (with all due concern for her safety). We decided that it would be best to connect her somehow to one or two large motels in the suburbs near an extensive business complex about 20-25 miles from where we lived. Neither Bill nor I knew anyone there and most likely the majority of people staying at such places would be out of town businessmen. That seemed to solve part of my problem with respect to maintaining my wife's anonymity. The other part we'd have to confront if the men she serviced wanted to take her into the city to some restaurant or club likely to be frequented by people we knew. That's where I couldn't resist taking a chance.

There remained the 'small' matter of hiring her out as an on-call whore. I wasn't even sure any of the motels used such services, but the most promising we thought would be a 12 story branch of an international chain, equivalent to a hotel. None had a nightclub, but several had sports bars that drew crowds on the weekends from local residents and guests. The bar we decided would be the route to follow in making whatever contacts we needed. We'd take my wife there, on a consistent basis if need be, dressed if not slutty then provocatively in the hopes that she'd either be noticed and contacted directly by hotel management or where we might get to know a bartender who'd provide the requisite contacts. In fact, we decided that, in the event any of those bars was frequented by someone we might know, we'd begin by merely having her dress sexy, and with each visit (each weekend), increase the sluttiness of her attire. If early on we met anyone we knew, it would seem that my wife was merely being provocative and sexy for her husband.

This was admittedly a longer-term plan than we usually engaged in when setting my wife up for some sexual adventure. But I'd spent nearly three years talking her into being a slut shared wife, so a few months of work making her a call girl didn't seem excessive. And besides, she still had to service Bill and I in all the ways a BDSM slut was required to service her dual Masters (and that included Bill giving me a demonstration of my wife riding the board as a pain slut in his basement).

The reader might wonder about my wife's attitude about all of this. First, it hardly surprised her ... she suspected long before we developed specific plans that such a thing would come to pass. And she readily admitted that being a true whore had long been a fantasy: "You might be surprised about this," she told me once, "but a lot more women than you suspect ... otherwise happily married housewives ... entertain the fantasy of being whores. Not street-walking or full time whores, but occasional call-girls who get to dress elegantly or super-sexy, entertain some businessman or group of businessmen, and then spend the night getting fucked ... with or without their husband's approval. I'd bet that every one of my girlfriends entertains that fantasy."

Of course, like most fantasies, these ideas are rarely very detailed or concerned with practical matters. But as plans began to unfold, she too expressed concerns about the need to conceal her identity from any of the men she'd service. But she also knew that regardless of what reservations she might have, once Bill and I decided to whore her, she'd comply. So her attitude was simply to set her mind to enjoy being so utterly wanton, taking pleasure from living out the fantasy of being a TV soap opera style whore housewife.

Our first two visits to the hotel bar on Friday nights were largely uneventful, although on the second we made certain we got there early enough for the three of us to sit at the bar with my wife wearing a button up blouse that she incrementally unbuttoned as the evening progressed, affording the bartender and a few patrons an increasingly more provocative view . By the second visit it was evident the bar had 'regulars' ... locals ... plus a scattering of men spending the night at the hotel. Our interest, however, wasn't in whoring her directly to anyone, but in simply becoming one of the regulars ourselves, with it evident to someone at the hotel that my wife available for 'other duties'.

On the third visit ... and Bill was unable to come with us that night ... Betty wore one of her shorter skirts that fit so tight there was no mistaking the cleavage of her ass. No sheer blouse or slut dress yet, but her appearance was augmented with a pair of fuck me heels and earrings that hung the full length of her neck. It was thus evident that she was a woman who loved to be viewed as anything but prim and proper. By then, moreover, I'd developed an easy relationship with the bartender, who was increasingly comfortable commenting on her appearance. Indeed, with her in the restroom, he blurted out "sexy lady and nice tits" as if he were testing to see whether I'd get upset at such an explicit comment about my wife.

"Yes, I do like her to display herself."

"I noticed that and I how you and your friend ... he's not here tonight, is he? ... had her unbutton her blouse the past two Fridays. She seems to do as she's told."

"Yes she does ... " I replied, still seeing myself where the conversation was headed.

Then, after granting his request to ask a blunt question and acknowledging that she was in fact my wife, he asked "Are you and your friend both fucking her?"

"Yes we are."

"Nice ... a shared housewife, huh? Does anyone else fuck her?"

Taking this as my opportunity to reveal more than perhaps he bargained for, I told him bluntly "When the opportunity arises she fucks whoever I tell her to fuck."

Emboldened by my answer, he pressed on: "So she's a slut housewife?"

"A sub slut housewife ... she is strictly sub for anyone who uses her" I answered, emphasizing the word 'sub'.

He then asked the question I wanted him to ask: "Has she been whored ... fucked for money?"

"Nothing yet professionally," I answered, now emphasizing the word 'yet'.

"So you have no objection to having her be a whore?"

"None at all" I said simply, letting the consequences of that reply sink in.

"Are you bringing her here to pimp her?"

Time, I decided to reveal my intentions: "I'm bringing her here in the hopes of making contact with someone at the hotel in the event it has a need for an on-call whore, where she can be hired out one or two nights a week."

"Not sure the hotel can get involved with such a thing. By the way, I didn't think you were pimping her since I would have noticed if she had left with anyone for their room. She's a sexy looking slut and I've kept an eye on her ... its hard to keep your eyes off a woman who likes showing her tits. Would you let me fuck her if I can arrange something here at the hotel?"

I didn't think my wife would be attracted to an aging bartender with a bulging stomach, but if she were a whore, that's the type she'd have to service from time to time: "Yes, you could fuck her."

I sensed that he had many more questions, but my wife then returned, so I decided to demonstrate her ready acceptance of being a whore. With the bartender again staring at her tits, I said "Our friend here is going to see if he can arrange for you to be an on-call whore here."

Without a hint of embarrassment or surprise she replied simply "that's what I assumed you were discussing in my absence."

"Unbutton your blouse more so our friend here can see your tits fully."

Taking a quick look at nipples fully on display to him, he quickly excused himself when being called to the other end of the bar, but not before saying "hold on a sec ... I'll be right back."

Turning to my wife, I asked (already knowing the answer): "Is your cunt wet?" "Yes it is."

"Why?" I asked if only to explicitly state the reason.

"Because I know that I'll most likely be a whore here and because one way or the other I'm going to eventually fuck the bartender."

"That's right ... even if he can't arrange what I want, if he makes the effort I'm going to let him fuck you. But I'm not going to tell him that now."

With that the bartender returned: "How do I contact you in case I can arrange something?"

"We'll be here next Friday. If you can arrange something I'll give you a telephone number then." And with that we left, since I then had a raging hard-on that needed release brought on by the prospect, now real, of making my wife a call girl.

The next day Bill readily approved of the course of events, although he expressed some concern that my wife's duties as a whore would cut into his opportunities to fuck and use her. I assured Bill that he'd still have as much access to her as I, and as if to confirm that fact I gave her to him for the night, telling him simply to return her Sunday morning.

The following Friday was another 'bad' one for Bill in that he was unable to go with us to the hotel. I didn't mind since I preferred being the go-between for my wife and our new friend at the bar. It was time, though, to dress her more explicitly, especially since, after three weekends, I'd developed some confidence that we'd be unlikely to meet anyone we knew. So the dangling earrings and 6" fuck me heels remained, but the skirt, blouse, bra and panties were replaced by the dress Bill chose for her some time ago that barely covered her ass and, owing to the plunging neckline, threatened to uncover one tit or the other with the slightest misstep. Not that I planned on whoring her then, but it was time to let others see she was more than just a housewife with a taste for being provocative.

The bar was empty when we arrived and so the bartender immediately approached us when we sat at the bar, announcing "I think I've arranged what you want. I'll tell the night manager of the hotel you're here. He's expecting you."

I think my cock stiffened instantly and I suspect my wife's cunt grew damp just as fast. And true to his word, the bartender soon returned to say that we should go to the front desk and ask to see the manager. Ushered into his office he closed the door behind us and announced simply "nothing that we discuss here will in any way be formally connected to this hotel."

"Of course," I assured him, whereupon, after getting some background information, he outlined some potential arrangements. He would be largely divorced from whatever transpired since he rarely if ever got an explicit request from a guest for a whore. Those requests were much more likely to be expressed to the bartender. Thus, the bartender ... Alfred ... would make specific arrangements. The manager's sole responsibility was to cast a blind eye. That didn't preclude the possibility that he'd receive an occasional request to 'liven up a party' of out-of-town businessmen, but requests for my wife's services would most likely come from Alfred.

"Alfred, I assume, is aware of all of this?" I queried.

"Yes ... and you should return to him now to make whatever arrangements you think are necessary. The less I know, the better."

Taking that as an invitation to return to the bar, my wife and I stood to leave, but he interrupted: "There is a cost to my complicity ... from time to time I'll want to fuck your wife. As a matter of fact, I suggest you leave her here now while you discuss things with Alfred."

Considering how salaciously my wife was dressed, I'd anticipated this request. And as I learned subsequently, my wife would have been disappointed if he hadn't wanted to fuck her. So with little more than an approving nod, I exited his office, leaving my wife behind still in her seat. .

With a few more patrons now at the bar, it took a few minutes before Alfred approached me. "I see by your wife's absence that our manager is extracting his fee."

"Yes, he wants to fuck her now."

"I don't blame him ... she's a delicious piece of ass. Let me tell you now what I need. I'll need a few pics of her,. preferably of her dressed both elegantly and as a slut. And I'll need a telephone number. I also need to know if there are any times, dates, etc where she'll generally be unavailable. Men may come in here hinting that the want a fuck or a companion that night. I won't expect your wife to be immediately available, but it wouldn't hurt if she was. Beyond that everything's up to you and we can play it by ear."

"How much do you think she should charge?" I asked, my mind still groping for the right questions. I amazed myself, in fact, at how unprepared I was for everything.

"If she were my wife I'd ask $100/hour and $500/night. She's probably worth twice that but lets see how things go. By the way, I won't handle any money ... collecting her fee will be up to you."

What was curious about this conversation was that there I sat, making arrangements for my wife as a whore while she was doubtlessly getting fucked somewhere by the hotel manager, and the hardon I had when first learning that arrangements were afoot had wholly dissipated. It was as if I were selling apples or making arrangements to have the oil changed in my car. I agreed, naturally, to Alfred's request for pictures, saying I'd FedEx them the next day, adding the proviso that condoms be required unless permission was otherwise given and that her limits were to include the usual ... no children, drugs, permanent damage, and so on.

Alfred assured me that she'd be rented out only to hotel guests and advertised simply as an escort ... he'd brief her on how to avoid illegalities and entrapment. He'd also tell her how to dress when she was called since sometimes the men who hired her would want to have her dressed elegantly as when she'd be taken out to dinner as a companion, and sometimes they'd want only an erotic fuck and would prefer that she wear only some naughty lingerie under a coat. As for his 'fee' as a 'facilitator' of things, he'd call in a week or so. After that he would ask only that I be 'fair' in my treatment of him ... money-wise or by granting him further access to her.

Admittedly, his comment about entrapment set me back and reminded me of the seriousness of what I was doing. But so cool was his demeanor, I hardly has cause to rethink the scheme. "Have you done this before ... handled a whore from the bar?"

"In my 30 or so years of bartending, your wife isn't my first encounter with setting someone up as a whore. What they tell you about bartenders 'hearing it all' its pretty much true. Your wife isn't the first housewife I've poured a drink for who wanted to experiment being a whore. Nor are you the first husband who encouraged his wife to be one."

That last comment only confirmed my belief that beneath the thin veneer of propriety that characterized suburbia with its baby strollers, two car garages, and SUVs, there existed a far more salacious core ... BDSM in the bedroom, horny housewives exploring sex outside of their marriage, and husbands who encouraged them to do so. Society's norms and expectations might keep a lid on everything but I would have been shocked to learn that only a few housewives who lived in the vicinity of the hotel hadn't been fucked there or in some nearby motel by someone other than hubby. And not shocked either to learn that a good share of them had been fucked with hubby's enthusiastic approval.

In any event, after giving him our telephone number I sat at the bar for a half hour or so before Betty finally reappeared ... a tad disheveled and obviously fucked. The manager couldn't devote an evening to her and instead had satisfied himself, as the slut dress shop owner had, with a quick encounter. He'd taken her to a vacant room and used her there rather than take the chance anyone on the staff would know what was happening. There seemed, then, little reason to remain at the bar except to review things with my wife. I began, however, again asking a question to underscore her status as a slut: "Is your cunt full of the manager's cum now?"

"Yes ... yes it is."

"The bartender ... Alfred ... is going to be your pimp. He'll call you at home whenever your services are required." I used the word 'pimp' deliberately, knowing it would bring into sharp focus the fact that she was going to be made a whore

"All of this scares me a little," she acknowledged,. "But before you ask, yes, the prospect of becoming a real whore does excite me."

One had to be sitting there, looking at her, dressed like a wanton slut, her tits nearly falling out of her dress, to not be surprised at her comment. It would, though, be a jaw-dropping statement for anyone who knew her in any other context ... our family or any of my work colleagues, who continued to see her only as a prim and proper suburban housewife. My mind flashed back again to asking myself how many other housewives who appeared utterly unexceptional also had dark sexual secrets? How many women at the supermarket were going to return home and be wanton sluts for their husbands? How many colleagues at the university have wives who otherwise seemed boring and frumpy, fuck someone other than their husbands and with their husbands' consent? The only answer was 'far more than I imagined a year ago.'

We left the hotel with that thought still in my head, figuring I'd give my whore wife further details later. So the clock was running and it was only matter of time before she began this new adventure. That time, in fact, came sooner than I 'd expected ... the very next evening. The call from Alfred came around 6:30 PM: Could she be at the hotel in two hours? Bill and I had planned to take her to dinner that night, but it seemed unwise to make her unavailable the first time she was called. So we decided to forgo that pleasure. As for her attire, Alfred suggested some naughty lingerie: "She'll simply be sent to someone's room who wants a good fuck."

I directed her, then, to wear her little black sheer bustier with long garter straps, black thigh high hose, fuck me heels ... and nothing else (except of course, a coat to render her legal in public). "No panties of thong?" she asked in a half pleading voice.