My Wife, The Escort 1 & 2 (My Wife, The Escort Season 1) Read online

  by Victoria Kasari

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  © Copyright Victoria Kasari 2015

  The right of Victoria Kasari to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, events, companies, organizations or products is purely coincidental.

  Cover characters are models. Images licensed from (and copyright remains with) the photographers/owners as follows: background - Volokhatiuk / Depositphotos, lipstick mark - Belchonock / Depositphotos, couple - Periodimages.com

  This book contains explicit material and is for adults only. All characters portrayed are intended to be over 18 years of age, even where not explicitly stated.

  Also by Victoria Kasari on Kindle

  Many also available in paperback

  Male POV books in which a husband is made to watch his wife with other men - whether he likes it or not!

  Cuckolded in Space

  Cuckolded - My Wife on the Submarine

  Cuckolded - My Wife at the Renaissance Faire

  Cuckolded - My Wife on the Oil Rig

  Cuckolded in College

  Cuckolded by My Boss

  Cuckolded - Watching My Wife

  Cuckolded at the College Reunion 1 - 3

  Watching My Wife in Jamaica

  Female POV stories in which women live out their group sex fantasies

  In the Sauna - Linda and the Football Team

  Halloween Hooker Costume

  Blurbs at the end of this book!

  Can’t find a story? http://victoriakasari.com

  "Jack, I am not telling you how many men I’ve slept with!"

  Harriet was indignant but she was grinning, too. We were both a little drunk.

  "You can have my number, anytime," I told her.

  "Who says I want to know your number? I don’t want a list of all the …."—I could tell she was about to say sluts, but Harriet’s not that sort of woman—"women you slept with back in college."

  My wife is thirty and I’m two years older. We’d been married for seven years and it had taken us this long—and a bottle of champagne and some serious stress—to have this conversation. My wife was normally so uptight about sex. But that night, both of us were acting a little crazy. It was our way of putting our problems out of our mind.

  "Six," I said, in order to move things along.

  She gaped at me. "Wah—wait! I said I didn’t want to know!"

  "Too late." I grinned. "Now you know. Now you have to tell me your number."

  "What?! That’s not fair! I didn’t agree to those terms!"

  I refilled her half-empty glass. The champagne was the good stuff, but I didn’t care. We were so far in debt, it wasn’t going to make any difference.

  Things had started going wrong about six months before. As an architect, I’d been making good money. I’d met Harriet at college and married her three years after I graduated. I’d started to take on bigger projects and, when the property crash happened, I’d sunk everything we had into buying up apartments with the intention of doing them up and selling them for a fat profit.

  But both of us had been too hungry, too eager. We’d left ourselves with too little to live on, putting all our savings and most of Harriet’s advertising exec salary into the mortgages. Then, when bills started coming in, it had been just too tempting to put them on our credit cards, thinking we’d soon be able to sell one of the apartments and pay it all off.

  Contractor costs ran over and we’d started to panic, putting one after another of the apartments on ice until we had just one we were redeveloping. Then the remodel on that went over budget and we had to stop when it was ninety-percent complete. Now, we were starting to panic about paying our own mortgage at the end of the month. We’d gone from building a property empire to worrying about the roof over our own heads. How did it all go wrong so quickly?!

  This night away had been an attempt to let off some much-needed steam. We’d both been working crazy hours and neither of us was sleeping well. Sometimes I’d lie there in bed, staring at the ceiling and worrying about bills, knowing that Harriet was doing the exact same thing next to me. At least that had led to some late-night sex sessions. That was a much-needed bonus because, after seven years of marriage, things were starting to get a little stale.

  I shook my head in wonderment. As I looked at her now, biting her lip as she debated whether to give me "her number," I couldn’t understand how sex with her could ever get stale. My wife was gorgeous. Long, silky blonde hair that fell to her mid back. A cute, delicate nose and big green eyes that gave her an innocent look.

  She had perfect, full breasts that had been the envy of many girls at college and now many of her female friends and a slender waist honed by endless aerobics classes and the rowing machine at our house—her way of working off stress. She was 5’7", but most of her height was in her legs, long and shapely and leading your eyes up to a high, pert ass. She looked great even in flat shoes, but in heels, like she wore tonight, the effect was mouthwatering. Every time she crossed or uncrossed those nylon-covered legs, I completely lost my train of thought.

  The night away was probably exactly what we needed, but it was something we never would have been able to justify, given our money problems. Fate had intervened in the shape of Eddie, my old college friend. His job had taken him all over the country, staying in hotels almost every night. He’d racked up hundreds of thousands of hotel points with one of the big chains, but had no time to spend them. "Besides,” he’d grumbled to me, "when I go on vacation, the last thing I want to do is stay in the same goddamn chain!”

  When he’d needed a quick favor—a trained architect to sign off on some plans for his house renovations—I’d done it without expecting anything in return. But Eddie had transferred the entire, bulging account of hotel points into my name. "Take that wife of yours away," he’d ordered me.

  It was complete overkill—enough points to stay in a luxury hotel for a solid month. But I gratefully accepted and now we were enjoying a mini-vacation—a night away from our house, our normal lives and our problems.

  "Eight," Harriet said suddenly.

  "Eight?!" She’s slept with eight guys?! I realized my eyes had gone wide. Shit, no! Don’t act shocked!

  But it was too late. Harriet was already flushing. "No, not eight," she stammered. "Wait. Five."

  "No, it’s fine!"

  "Honestly! Five! Three of them were, um…" Her cheeks were flaring red and I could have slapped myself for reacting the way I did. I’d started this game and now I’d gone and embarrassed her, which hadn’t been my intention at all. The irony was that I wasn’t horrified. Surprised, sure, because I’d had no idea my wife was that...experienced. But I wasn’t horrified. In fact, I was….

  I swallowed. I was kind of turned on Maybe it was the champagne, but….

  I reached across the table and grabbed Harriet’s hand. "Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to look shocked. I’m not shocked. Just a little...I didn’t realize you had that many boyfriends before me." Then a horrible thought occurred to me. "Wait...they were all before me, right?"
I was half-joking as I said it, but I still tensed up. I trusted my wife absolutely, but she was gorgeous. I knew she had plenty of male admirers at her office and even amongst our friends.

  Harriet burst out laughing, but sounded relieved at the same time. "Yes! God, yes, of course they were before you!"

  I sat back in my seat, looking at her. God, she was beautiful. I swore she didn’t look any different than when she’d graduated. She still had the same amazing body, that delicious combination of hard and soft. She still had the long, loose hair and she still had that gleam in those big, innocent eyes that seemed to go almost liquid when she got aroused. As I ran my eyes over the deep cleavage revealed by the neckline of her cocktail dress, I could feel myself hardening in my pants. We’d both dressed up for the night and I liked to think I looked pretty good in my charcoal-gray suit. But Harriet looked amazing.

  "Who were they?" I asked. I hadn’t been planning to ask that. It just sort of slipped out.

  She blushed again, but this time it was a different kind of blush. The same blush she got in bed, sometimes, when I asked her to share one of her fantasies with me. An I don’t want to tell you but I kind of do blush. "You know. Guys." She squirmed in her seat.

  "Guys? Who?"

  "Why are you so interested?"

  I didn’t want to admit that I was turned on. I didn’t even know why I was turned on. "I just want to know you," I said. "All of you." I leaned forward again. "It’s okay! I‘m not angry or anything. Just tell me."

  She sort of squirmed again, her pert ass pushing further back in her chair, her thighs squeezing together. She bit her lip and looked around us to make sure no one was listening. But we’d settled in a quiet corner of the hotel lounge, quite a way from the bar itself and the huddle of suited guys around it.

  "My first was just after I started college, when I was a freshman. Scott. Then there was Harry, later that year. And Dean—he was just a one-night stand. Max was a one-night stand, too, and so was Jack.” She flushed. “I went through sort of a stage, that month."

  "That month?! All three were—"

  She looked up at me, wide-eyed.

  "Sorry. I didn’t mean to—Go on."

  She swallowed. "Then there was Zane. We dated for about a month."

  "Zane?" I frowned. "I don’t remember anyone at college called Zane."

  "Oh, he wasn’t at college. He was a biker."

  I‘d picked up my champagne again and was sipping it. Now I did a spit-take. "You dated a biker?!"

  She lowered her eyes, embarrassed again...but smiling at the memory. "I was young, okay? A young college girl away from home, and I thought it was all dangerous and exciting. And he wasn’t a bad guy, you know? A little flaky, and he drank a little too much sometimes, but he had a good heart. Anyway then there was Mike—that didn’t go well, we only lasted about three dates. And then Quinn—"

  "Wait, wait!"

  She stopped. "What?" She bit her lip. "You want me to stop?"

  "No!" I said it so firmly she actually jerked back in surprise. I surprised myself, too, and I had to pause for a second to get my thoughts straight. "Tell me about them."

  "You want me to tell you about my boyfriends?"

  "I want you to tell me about the sex." It came out in a rush and then the words hung there between us.

  "You want to hear about that?" She sat back in her chair and stared at me. "I would have thought that’s the one thing you wouldn’t want to hear about."

  Is this weird, I wondered. I guess I should have been jealous, but I wasn’t. The idea of my wife having sex with some other guy was just...the hottest thing in the world.

  "It’s a turn on," I said. I lowered my head so much as I said it, I’m surprised she managed to hear me.

  She stared at me for a few seconds...and then a strange, hesitant smile twitched her lips. “Really?”

  I nodded.

  She squirmed in her seat again, her stockinged thighs hypnotizing. And it was there, right there, that our lives changed. Everything that would follow could be traced back to my admitting that it turned me on, and her finding that telling me turned her on.

  “Quinn,” she said, much more slowly than before. “He was in a band. God, the band was awful, looking back, but at the time I thought they were amazing, and I just must be too uncool to get them, you know? Sort of thrash metal with lyrics about revolution.” She shook her head at the memory. “But he had this really dark brown hair—like almost black—and he had the best gray eyes I’ve ever seen. I used to wait backstage at gigs—nowhere big, they were playing bars and stuff—and he’d come off stage, guitar still on his back, and push me up against the wall—”

  I caught my breath. He pushed her up against a wall! I imagined her, in a denim skirt and one of those tight t-shirts she used to wear as a college student.

  Harriet had lowered her voice, now, but it didn’t matter. She could have dropped it to a whisper and I still would have heard her because every other sound in the hotel lounge had ceased to exist to me. I was a hundred percent locked onto her, glued to every syllable. “We’d be in the corridor—I mean right next to the stage, and he’d shove his hand up my skirt and feel my legs and then—” She hesitated, tilting her head to one side. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  I nodded. I didn’t dare speak. I was suddenly more turned on than I’d ever been in my life. Why hadn’t we done this years ago?!

  “Then he’d rub me a little and put his fingers up inside me.”

  “You were wet?” My voice was strained.

  She looked up into my eyes. “...yes. I always was, by the time they finished their set. Because I knew what was going to happen, as soon as he finished that last song. Sometimes they’d do an encore and I’d be almost hopping from foot to foot, backstage.”

  I took a deep breath, imagining it. “Go on.”

  “Well, then he’d pull my skirt up a little and push my panties to the side, and he’d whip his cock out and—” She reddened, but she was breathing quicker, too. “He’d shove it up into me. He’d pull my top up over my boobs so he could squeeze them while he fucked me. Sometimes my bra, too.”

  “Jesus. He actually fucked you—”

  “Right there in the corridor, yeah. I mean no one could see from the bar, but we could hear them - they were only just”—she indicated a point about eight feet away from us—”there. But we were kind of private, as long as no one walked past.” She suddenly flushed and dropped her eyes.

  “What? Someone walked past?”

  “Once or twice. Other people in the band, or someone who worked in the bar. Usually guys.”

  “What did you do?” The whole thing had sprung to vivid life in my mind. I could see her, her naked back against the bare concrete wall, a tight green t-shirt hauled up above those full, pale breasts with their pink, pencil-eraser nipples. I could see Quinn, lean and wiry, his hands on her breasts as he pumped his hips into her. I looked at the place where they joined, but I couldn’t quite visualize a cock entering her—it was something I’d never seen except in first-person, when it was me fucking her. But just trying to imagine it, just the hazy image, had me harder than I could remember ever being.

  She flushed and looked down at the table, then drank some champagne while she worked up the courage to continue. “When someone walked past...we kept going.” She looked up at me. “I mean, it wasn’t like that. We weren’t putting on a show or anything. We just—you know...if they wanted to watch for a few seconds, as they walked past, so be it.”

  I imagined being one of those other guys in the band who’d lusted after Harriet. I imagined finding an excuse to walk along the corridor, knowing she’d be there. Walking as slowly as I could, drinking in every detail of her heaving breasts, of her thighs spread wide around my buddy’s plunging ass. Memorizing it all so that I could jerk off to it later.

  More than anything else, I wanted to be that guy.

  My wife blinked, suddenly embarrassed, as if realizing how much she
’d told me. “Anyway,” she said. “That’s what it was like with Quinn.” She looked at me. “Was that okay?”

  “Better than okay,” I said. “Awesome.”

  She smirked. “Are you imagining being Quinn, now? Taking me up against a wall?”

  I nodded, because I didn’t know what else to say. The truth was, though, I wasn’t imagining me fucking her. I was getting off on the idea that another guy—not some fantasy figure but Quinn, a real guy, a guy who even now was walking around in the world somewhere—had fucked her. I stared at her body through the dress, thinking of the panties she was wearing. Thinking of the ones just like it that had been pulled aside by Quinn’s fingers. Of Quinn’s cock sliding between those soft, pink lips—

  “Can you tell me about the others?” I asked. “Zane? Mike?”

  She was looking at me with half-bemused, half-amused smile, but her eyes were shining with arousal. It was the horniest I’d seen her in months. “I guess.”

  I grinned and then raised one hand to stop her before she started. “I have to go take a leak,” I said. I looked at our glasses. I still had some champagne left, because I’d been sitting there open-mouthed, listening to her speak. Harriet’s, though, was empty because she’d been sipping it to cover her embarrassment. “You want another drink?”

  She looked across at the bar, still packed with businessmen. There were a few women there, too, in dresses not dissimilar to Harriet’s. “I might get myself one more glass of something,” she said.

  I hurried off to the bathroom. The night was turning out so much better than I’d thought it could. I’d thought it would just be an escape for a few hours—maybe the champagne and the fancy room would lead to sex for the first time in weeks but, the next day, we’d be back to our money problems and our stale sex life. But this was something else. I’d discovered a whole new world. I don’t mean discovering that my wife had a sexual history—I’m not dumb, of course she’d slept with other guys before me. The revelation was that it turned me on.