by Jade West
There were suspender belt attachments hanging from the ruffle at the hips, and a pair of lace top stockings hooked onto the hanger on the back.
He’d picked well, both in choice and in size. The selection was perfect, both in overall sizing and cup size, much better than Brett would have ever managed, even after all these years.
I wondered how a stranger gauged my measurements with such accuracy, prickling at how closely he must have been examining me all those times in his company.
I realised what a paranoid bitch I’d been, sitting there and fighting back tears of relief along with giggles as I let my guard come down. Brett could have easily looked along with me without any fallout. He could have even got a happy advanced preview. The hand slap was entirely overkill and so were the bristling nerves.
I was losing the plot. Absolutely, entirely, without any doubt.
But still, as I held that outfit up once more to the overhead light and examined the gorgeous pattern in the lace, I was glad I’d taken this moment as my own.
I remembered the night all those years ago when I was barely legal and had whispered to Brett after college one day that I was ready. We’d been fumbling for months through that summer, edging closer and closer, but that night was a world away from all the other impromptu make out sessions. I’d gotten myself ready with a long hot bath, preparing myself like some kind of sacrificial offering before he’d arrived with a big grin on his face for a night at mine. Soaping and shaving, preening and prepping, curling my hair in the perfect wave and using what felt like every single item in my makeup box.
I’d forgotten how the nerves had danced up my spine as I dressed in my favourite underwear, all ready for him to make me his for the first time. I’d forgotten how my heart had raced at the thought of the ultimate sensation, him claiming my body in a way that could never be undone.
I felt that way all over again as I hung Thomas Heath’s chosen outfit on the back of the door and turned the shower jet on full. I cast off my everyday blouse and jeans like I was shedding my skin, stepping under the faucet as though I’d step back out a whole new woman.
No, not a woman. A nervous girl with a fluttering belly, worried about a strange man’s hands on her body for nine hours straight.
I soaped and shaved with as much care as I had for my husband when he was just a fumbling teenager. I let the magic of being seen, exposed and vulnerable through a stranger’s hungry eyes, wash over me with the body scrub.
It didn’t need to be hell.
It could be anything but a nightmare.
It could be an awakening. A night of experimentation in a lifetime of stability. It wasn’t cheating, or adultery, not even close. The stranger upstairs could hurt me, drag my body screaming to places from his twisted imagination, but I’d be doing it for my life with the man I loved.
I was exhausted with my own frayed emotions, tired of see-sawing through the crazy reactions of the past few days. It already felt like an age since our loaded guest had stepped up to the bar and made his filthy offer.
Letting the emotional crud wash away was easier than I expected when push finally came to shove. Call me a realist, a pragmatist, a rationalist accepting her fate, but I let it all go and forced my chin up to face whatever perversion was coming my way.
I towelled off my freshly shaved body with gentle hands, moisturising every single inch of skin when I was done. I brushed my teeth with the vigour of someone on a first date, drying my hair in the waves I’d practiced so well for my husband. I applied my makeup carefully, steadying my shaking fingers with a nervous smile on my face.
And then, finally, I slipped on the beautiful bedroom outfit.
The full length mirror told me everything I needed to know, and so did the tears pricking my eyes as I twisted to give myself a better view.
They weren’t sad tears threatening to fall, or even nervous ones.
They were the tears of a woman taken aback by how good she felt in her own skin.
I couldn’t wait for Thomas Heath to see me like this, there was no denying it.
But more importantly, I couldn’t wait for my husband to see me like this either.
Chapter Eighteen
Thomas
A text message buzzed in my pocket as I made the final room preparations.
I finished lining up the impressive array of props on the dressing table before I took a look at it, my excitement tingling deep through my balls.
Don’t. Please don’t do this to yourself.
Her good intentions pained me, but not nearly enough to make a difference.
My poor sweet Polly was missing the point entirely. For every ounce of dead hope I was bringing down on myself through this endeavour, I was bringing a world of pain to the guy I’d hated right the way through living memory.
And beautiful Grace, the girl I’d lusted after since before I really knew what the word meant. She’d be mine.
I’m certain Polly was missing the true meaning laced within my plans, assuming my infatuation with Grace would lead me down a treacherous path, veering between self-hatred and some strange semblance of romantic love turned bad. But she was wrong.
Grace Foster would be mine, but there would be no hearts and roses. No long evenings laughing over shared jokes, the way she’d been doing with her husband for years.
Grace Foster would be mine in soul. Shackled by the tainted memory of the way I’d played her body, and her spirit along with it. Her skin would crave my contact, even as her bruised heart bled from all the fallout.
She’d want what she could never have. A soul-felt connection like the one she’d believed she’d been blessed with as a married woman. Only more.
More lust. More sweat and shivers and the crazed ripples of a body driven over the edge.
Maybe I’d give her the latter all over again, once or twice to seal the deal. Maybe even once too many, beyond all reason, her siren’s call tempting even a stone-hearted sonofabitch like me.
Or maybe I’d abandon her to her shattered memories and never return her calls.
I tightened the waterproof sheet over the bare mattress, stretching it taut before stuffing the covers and pillows out of sight in the big double wardrobe.
I shifted the hulk of furniture along the carpet slightly, ensuring the full length mirror was positioned just so, prime for all parties to see all glorious angles of the action.
Brett’s chair was already in place, mid-way along the bed and close enough to see the dirty display, despite being just out of arm’s reach. If he broke with jealousy enough to spring to his feet and assault me halfway through proceedings it would be the biggest mistake he’d make in his life.
I’d already set up the camera and app with its infrared mapping light on the bedside table. One move across the trigger line and their remaining twenty-five grand would retreat from its holding account and rush safely back into mine.
It wouldn’t be the first time money had slipped from a couple’s grip in such a manner.
Part of me hoped it would pan out that way, just so I could witness him at maximum pain in his jealous rage. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of leaving in the morning with only a business card in my wake — never getting to witness the ensuing relationship meltdown first-hand.
I could only imagine. As luck would have it, I’m a very imaginative guy.
My shower was short but thorough, my spritz of classic scent generous as it clung to my still-damp skin. My suit was my finest, crisp in its stark black and white lines, so perfectly monochrome. My brogues were polished and my teeth were brushed and flossed. My hair was swept back from my face and my beard freshly clipped and smoothed neat.
I’d never been more ready for a pretty woman’s cunt as I was for Grace Foster’s inexperienced little treasure trove, I just wished I had ninety hours to explore her rather than nine.
I took the stairs down slowly to the bar, arriving at just after nine for an hour of careful drinking before proceedings began. T
he room was empty of outsiders, which was somewhat of a disappointment. I’d hoped for at least a few oblivious guests thrumming around the place, forcing my hosts into easy smiles at odds with their rattling nerves.
Instead it was only Brett, propped at the bar with a beer half drunk, scrolling through his phone and feigning ignorance of my presence.
He knew I was there, just as I knew he knew it. His surly pretence of superiority did nothing but encourage my inner bastard, my smirk at full smugness as I took a stool opposite him.
“A scotch,” I told him. “Single shot this time. I want my senses… alert.”
He made sure to leave me waiting a few seconds before switching his handset to sleep mode and grabbing a full bottle of scotch from beneath the counter, slamming it in front of me along with an empty glass.
“Knock yourself out,” he grunted. “It’s on the house. Piss your pants in a drunken stupor and be my guest.”
My laugh was full of malice. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
He stood me off, eyes burning and shoulders high as he took another long swig of his own beverage, and then he laughed a bitter laugh of his own.
I poured a single shot, and he scoffed at my measure.
“You really think this means something, don’t you?” he said. “You’re really so puffed up with ego you think we’re gonna be fucked up proper by one sad fuck on a January Tuesday.” He took another swig of beer, but his eyes held mine. “We won’t be holding a toast to your memory every twelve months, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I enjoyed the smoky fragrance of the scotch before I took a sip.
“You’re really so bloated in ego that you believe your own sorry bravado,” I retorted, making sure my shoulders were as relaxed as ever.
“This ain’t bravado, pal–” he began, but his words dried up in a flash as his eyes widened at the doorway behind me.
Spinning to face the object of his distraction was instinctive, as was the way my own throat dried up at the sight of the beautiful woman walking through to join us.
She was Grace Foster, but she wasn’t. Her tight red dress was divine on her curves, finishing high enough on her thighs that the lace tops of the stockings I’d picked out for her were visible for a flash with every step. Her heels were high enough that her calves were straining tight, black gloss stilettos with a hint of hooker that her classic beauty offset so perfectly my dick was pulsing in seconds.
Her makeup was smoky and her lips were deep red to match her dress, her hair shining dark with a side parting that highlighted her high cheekbones.
There wasn’t a price tag in the world that could do justice to the hunger she drew from me. If her brute of a husband had slapped me on the shoulder and called off our deal in favour of sweeping her to bed himself I’d have risen my glass to him gladly.
But he didn’t.
He was uncharacteristically dumbstruck as his beautiful other half arrived alongside me, his eyes full of the sappy kind of adoration I’d devoted the past few years to proving impermanent.
“Did I polish up alright?” Grace asked, but she was playing. I loved the confident twinkle in those hazel-green eyes as she smiled first at him and then at me.
She knew she looked incredible. She maybe didn’t appreciate quite how incredible, but she was well on her way.
Being the catalyst for such a confident transformation of the poor, broken woman I’d seen at the bar a few days earlier was a strange, heartfelt pleasure.
“You look beautiful,” Brett told her across the bar, and his words bubbled with the kind of honesty that brought many a man to his knees.
I gave them a moment, sitting silent as the look of adoration simmered between them, well prepared to back away if they came to their senses enough to realise fifty grand was worth nothing more than a drop in the ocean of their commitment to each other.
But no.
Grace’s eyes were still sparkling bright when they turned their attention back to mine.
“Are you satisfied with your investment so far?” she asked me with a flutter of those falsely thickened lashes.
“Very,” I told her. “It’ll be almost a shame to strip you of those gorgeous adornments.”
“Almost?” she prompted and I smiled.
“Come on, dearest Mrs Foster, fishing for flattery doesn’t become you. You know how magical you look this evening. You could Pied Piper every male in a hundred mile radius with one flash of that siren smile.”
I’d have believed her nerves had vanished if it hadn’t been for the way her fingers trembled as they took a glass of wine from her husband.
“Just the one,” she commented, clearly for my benefit. “I want to be in control of my bodily functions, after all.”
“I want, doesn’t get,” I responded drily. “I’ll be the one in control of your bodily functions this evening.”
Her eyes were all on me as she took her first sip, and there, behind the glossy confidence of a sexy set of lingerie and the fried nerves of a woman giving herself to another man for the very first time, in the quiet shadows, in the core of her very being, was the palpable flutter of desire. I felt it. All of it. Every breathy quiver. Every clench of that curious pussy in the black lace I knew was kissing the soft pink lips between her legs.
And tonight, without a doubt — despite the husband across from her with puppy dog eyes and the steady grip of his ring on her finger — that pussy’s wetness was all for me.
Chapter Nineteen
Grace
Seeing the way two pairs of eyes ate me up was enough to set me alight. It was far more potent than the glass of red in my hand, far more affirming than even the gross amount of money Thomas Heath would pay for the pleasure.
He couldn’t stop looking at me, even though he tried to disguise his constant stare with an arrogant nonchalance. I knew his dick was already hard for me under the fine suit he’d virtually ironed onto his body. I knew he was clammy at the thought of what was to come, even through his cucumber cool veneer. Just as I was.
And just as my husband was, too.
Brett was keeping a tight lid on it, but I could read the way he shifted his weight from one hip to another and scratched a nervous itch on his jawline. I could see the tiniest hint of sweat at his temples, even though he kept his smile firm and bright.
No sooner than I was settled on a barstool and enjoying my drink, I blinked and the hour was ending.
I watched the big hand on the clock on the far wall make its final click onto the hour, and despite it being out of his eyeline, Thomas Heath got to his feet on cue.
“And so it begins,” he said. “Drink up.”
I could barely swallow my final gulp of wine, my throat tightening as the nerves slammed back hard. Bye bye, confidence. Hello, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
Brett got the lights from behind the bar and plunged us into a shady darkness that made the light of the beckoning staircase beam all the brighter. He dropped under the hatch and appeared at my side, slipping his hand into mine with a comforting squeeze.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” he commented, and I squeezed his fingers right back.
Heath beckoned us on ahead of him and I flashed him a glance over my shoulder as we walked on by. I could feel him there all the way, his warmth scorching the back of me, even though he was two steps behind.
My feet felt slippery in my heels, my thighs awkwardly tight as I climbed the stairs mute alongside my silent husband, wondering if we were really going to do this at the final hour. If this was really, really going down.
We arrived at the top suite and the man who’d paid to use my body slipped his key into the lock and pushed open the door. I stepped across the threshold first, fighting back a gasp at the scene before me.
It looked barely anything like the room I’d changed countless times. The mattress was stripped bare and cloaked in the thick waterproof sheet I’d seen in a box the night before. It looked seedy. D
ark and foreboding in its purpose.
The dresser was covered in every filthy toy imaginable. Towering dildos and curvy vibrators. Plugs and clamps and shapes I couldn’t even comprehend. Floggers, whips, and cuffs were hung over the knobs of the chest of drawers, resting within easy reach of the far side of the bed. Two chairs were positioned with purpose, one at the side of the bed facing across to the window, and the other at the bottom of the bed facing the top.
“For you,” the man with the plan said to Brett and tapped the back of the chair facing the window. Only it wasn’t facing the window, not really. It was facing the mattress, close enough that he’d see everything, smell everything, feel everything.
Our dirty blonde guest tapped the top of what looked like a black box on the bedside table nearest us. A thin line of red light presented itself on the carpet.
“This is the boundary,” he said as I struggled to fathom what he was talking about. “Cross this line and the money in the holding account reverts to mine. Agreement null and void.”
I could hear the pride in Brett’s growled response. “I won’t be crossing the fucking line. A deal is a deal. Just make sure you stick to your end of it.”
The other man raised his hands with a laugh. “I think I’ve already demonstrated how serious I am. I trust you enjoyed spending the first instalment.”
Neither of us said a word, Brett simply squeezing my fingers in one final gesture of support before taking his seat as instructed.
He was tense, his legs rigid and spread wide, foot tapping as he braced his elbows on the armrests. I didn’t blame him.
“And what about me?” I dared to whisper. “Where do you want me?”
I’d grown used to his smirk, but this time it came with a filthy glint in his eyes that set my spine tingling. I could have bolted for the door quite happily, even as my pussy tingled behind my fancy lace panties.
He gestured to the side of the bed, between Brett and the mattress, and I shifted slowly on my heels, tiny steps edging me in his direction. I wondered if this was the moment. If he’d grab me in those solid toned arms and manhandle me every which way he wanted me, but no sooner had I reached his appointed spot than he took the other chair for himself, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.