Stepping Out

Author's note: I apologize for the typo in the title of my first submission – Personal Assistance. Not a good way to start! I hope you will forgive me and enjoy the submissions, anyway, for what they're worth. Thanks – Jazz

Gwen had no idea her husband was stepping out on her. That's why she felt so guilty as she let herself into the hotel room. Still, she was now used to those initial pangs of guilt. She dimmed the lights, and got undressed. It still amazed her. Reclining on the bed, she began going over, in her head, the events leading up to this.

To start – what was it? Three, almost four months ago? – her wild friend, Flora, had talked her into meeting a client for her because she was in a jam. Sounded simple enough.

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"Flora?" the man had asked as she opened the hotel room door to his knock.

"No," she'd replied, apologetically. "Flora's going to be just a little bit late. She asked me to meet you and keep you company until she gets here. I'm Gwen." She had smiled warmly at him – he was very handsome, ruggedly so, she thought. "I hope that's all right."

His answering smile had been almost predatory. "That'll be just fine," he had purred – a growl, actually, deep in his throat.

He'd come into the room and surveyed it as Gwen went to fix him a drink. As she'd turned to hand it to him, he'd reached with his other hand and stroked the side of her breast. Surprised, she had giggled nervously and brushed his uninvited touch off. "Now, now," she'd admonished, trying to make light of her protest; but, as he'd taken a sip of his drink he'd reached out again and placed his hand firmly on Gwen's hip.

Pulling her toward the settee, he'd murmured, "Join me." Gwen hadn't wanted to make a fuss, and expecting Flora to show up imminently, she'd lifted his hand from her skirt, then sat primly next to him. Right away his arm had gone around her shoulders. Gwen had begun to get flustered, trying desperately to fend off his advances without giving offense. She'd stared vacantly about the room for help.

"You seem nervous," he had whispered in her ear, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "You must be new."

"I – uh – I just – I'm just here to – um – help Flora out," Gwen had sputtered. She had stiffened as his hand slipped down off her shoulder to cup, once again, to the side of her boob.

While he'd nursed his drink, the stranger had made idle small-talk. His groping and fondling had continued enough to require Gwen to dodge and sway, as she'd playfully batted his hands away, giggling nervously. She hadn't quite been able to figure out how she'd gotten into this, nor what she should do. Perplexed, she had wondered, "What would Flora do if she were here?" Then she'd known! She'd known exactly what Flora would do! She'd known exactly what Flora did!

Mind you, understanding that hadn't helped her situation at the time, and she had felt herself drifting under the stress and stimulation – projecting herself, until, suddenly, she was observing 'the dance' objectively. Gwen had been surprised to watch herself responding calmly to the persistent advances of her partner. She'd watched as he teasingly reached for her breasts, flipped her hair, ran his hand up her legs, touched her cheek, all the while laughing with her at her ineffective defensive moves. Indeed her resistance was initially token. She didn't want to make a fuss, and she'd fully expected to be rescued by Flora at any moment.

Gwen had been even more surprised to find herself getting aroused – not just from the physical sensations of his persistence but by the very odd circumstances, as well.

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And now, at the continuing recollection, a warmth swept over her.

She had acquiesced a little at a time. First tolerating his hand to brush across her clothed nipples – which, in itself, sparked an unholy arousal – before allowing him to gently squeeze – grope – her breasts through her blouse. Then, almost in a trance, she had let him undo the buttons of her top. He'd, naturally, almost casually, slipped a hand under her bra. She had barely been able to stand the heat generated by his subtle manipulations. The cool air on her tits, as he deftly removed her brassiere, had been an almost welcome relief, but only for a moment. The fire had flared, as he began nuzzling her swelling boobs, licking and nipping at her engorged nipples; it'd suddenly blazed up blindingly from deep in her chest to sear her brain. She remembered feeling her grip on reality slipping, being burned away.

Keeping his mouth firmly fastened to her right tit, hanging onto her bud with his teeth, he had reached under her skirt to grab her ass and squeeze. Gwen'd felt her head roll back as an animalistic whimper escaped from her lips. She had had to steady herself on his shoulders to keep from collapsing. Smoothly, one of his hands had swept under her to caress her already moistened pussy through her panties. When he'd pulled the damp material aside to push a digit between her slick nether-lips, something inside her had ignited, and she'd wrapped her arms around his head, gathering him securely into her heaving bosom. Without being conscious of it actually 'happening' she had become aware on her situation. For a few beats she'd been objectively watching herself virtually naked on a bed with a complete stranger.

The sheer naughtiness of it all had fired her libido hotter than she had ever been, and had rocketed her awareness back into the here and now – back into her corporeal self. And there, he'd been sucking and biting her nipples mercilessly, drawing his fingers though her ever-moistening furrow. The stimulation had been almost excruciating, tossing, or so it seemed, her soul into the midst of an explosion. The massive orgasm had hit unexpectedly, with an intensity she had never even imagined was possible – "Oh, oh, oh! Yes! Yes! No! Yes! Oh, God! So good! Oh! Ah! Ah, AH, AIYEEEEEAH! Yesssssss!" – and that was the first of many – that afternoon, and since.

He'd sat up, grinning, and pulled at the rest of their clothing, until he had them both naked, then, rolling atop, he had entered her swiftly – strong and assured – his iron hardness battering the walls of her womb, detonating another climax fast on the brief denouement of the first. Taking her to a place beyond anything she had ever experienced, it had blotted out reality, obscured any rational thought. She'd been carried along for long, long minutes by the crashing surf of afterglow, as he'd continued thrusting, holding his own release in abeyance while working her irrevocably toward yet another climax.

At that time, Gwen was not exceedingly experienced with oral sex, but somehow, as he'd rolled off her and lay still for a moment, on his back, she'd understood the twinkle in his eyes and the almost imperceptible nod of his head. Still quivering from the tremendous climax echoing through her core, she had crawled between his legs and gone down on him with a gusto that surprised her. Before they were done, he had fucked her twice more – with amazing vigour. She had had several more orgasms in the process. As he'd pounded into her the last time – she, lying with her lips on his chest, her fingers on his nipples – she'd felt the excited warmth of him press against her nose. "What am I doing?" The question had flitted across her awareness, but was quickly replaced by the detonation of yet another orgasm.

Lying on the bed, basking in a level of mellow afterglow she had never experienced, she had watched the stranger dress and leave. He'd muttered nice things to her, and left something on the nightstand. She realized she didn't know his name; nor did she need to. In fact, she had never even kissed him – not on the lips, in any case. Talk about your zipless fuck! As he'd left the room, he'd met Flora coming in. They'd exchanged words, at the door, then he had vanished. Flora had approached her, lying there, almost spread-eagle, amidst the crumpled bedding, naked and supremely satisfied.

"I'm so sorry that I'm late. I really didn't mean to leave you in the lurch like that," Flora raced to explain. "I only thought I'd be a few minutes late." Gwen had said nothing, at first – only watched, eyes half-mast. Flora's face cracked a sly smile. "You looked like you survived all right, though." Then she'd added, under her breath, "You've certainly got that well-fucked look about you!"

Serious once again, Flora had gone on, "I didn't mean for you to find out about me – my occupation – this way."

Gwen raised herself onto her elbow. "S'okay," she'd murmured. "It was fun!" Then, giving her mussed hair a shake, she'd purred, "Who am I kidding? It was fa-abulous!!"

Flora called herself a call-girl, but that was just a euphemism for high-priced, perhaps exclusive, prostitute; the client was a john. In her, albeit brief, explanation, it turned out Flora worked within a loose association of five 'ladies' with Miriam, the dispatcher, who saw herself, if somewhat erroneously, as the madam.

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Reminiscing, lounging on the bed, waiting for her next 'client', Gwen recalled highlights of her journey so far. The high of anonymous, illicit sex that first time had just blown her mind. Her climaxes had been unbelievable. She had objectively inspected her feelings and had detected, surprisingly, only a giddy invigoration, not the guilty confusion she'd expected; so, instead of complaining to her tardy friend, she'd wondered about doing it again. "Maybe, just once?"

"Well," Flora had chuckled. "He," she'd nodded toward the door, "would see you again." She'd let that sentence hang in the air between them.

And therein was the critical decision. Gwen could have shaken her head – no! She could have smiled, got dressed, and walked away. She could have chalked it up to a lapse in judgement, a unique experience, a one-off. "Oh?" she had queried instead, sitting up. "When?"

Flora had warned her about stepping onto a slippery slope, but acceded to her request. "Let me know when you're available. I'll talk to Miriam; we'll call with details." Although it didn't dawn on her just then, at that moment, she had become a professional. Notwithstanding, Gwen had paid little mind to the pile of bills left on the night stand.

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The second time was just as good – in some ways even better. Same client – just as anonymous – just as satisfying.

By the end of her second encounter she was actually hooked, and once she was hooked, it right away became a weekly thing – mind you, that had progressed fairly quickly to twice a week. But, it was never about the money, only the high. And the anticipation of pleasure far overshadowed all consideration of wrong-doing. She still marveled at the truth of it all. Here she was, an affluent, middle-class, forty-something housewife and mother of two. Her business as a freelance graphic artist routinely got her out of the house, and that gave her flexibility. A regular at the gym, she stayed in good shape, but never really ever thought of herself as beautiful or glamourous. And suddenly she was a – what? – call girl? Whore? A wry, almost sad, smile skipped across her lips.

Gwen had coined Wendy as her working name – although, as it turned out, she rarely ever used her pseudonym or her name in her liaisons – and, as Wendy, she had refined and defined her idiom. Getting undressed before the 'client' arrived, dimming the room by closing the curtains and leaving just one bedside lamp burning; then setting the door slightly ajar just before the appointed time, before lying in her tiny, sexy undies, sprawled alluringly on the turned-down bed – it had all become part of her established routine.

At one point, that very first time, with her very 'accidental client', she had moved to kiss him, but he'd turned aside, muttering that he was there for sex, not love. Interestingly that had made some degree of sense to her even then, and she had later incorporated it into her own style; so that now she almost never kissed clients on the lips.

Gwen always had her workout gear with her. Although it hadn't happened yet, she figured 'going to the gym' would easily explain her freshly-showered and invigorated demeanour, if anyone ever questioned her after an encounter. Early on, she'd shaved her bush, leaving just a 'landing strip' above her vulva. She'd explained that to her husband as having got the idea from a women's magazine – better for sweaty works out, or something. He'd accepted it as a rather attractive curiosity.

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"What a ride it's been, so far; what an experience," she mused.

So many different times – trysts? Tricks? Liaisons? And all memorable – each in its own way, although not all as smooth as one might want.

Early on, after she'd been doing it maybe a month or so, the client – 'john' as it were – had become frustrated. She had felt the anger building in his hammering thrusts, as she'd lay on her back, holding his shoulders, tits jiggling wildly. Hooking her ankles over his butt, she'd sensed a pulsing arousal growing within her fundament. Suddenly, with an anguished growl, he'd stopped. Pulling her hands from his shoulders, he'd abruptly pulled out, then shuffled and hopped his knees up over her shoulders, trapping her arms, and jammed his swollen penis into her mouth, entwining his fingers in her hair, and brutally feeding her the length of his impressive erection.

Panic had flared as the cock-head filled her throat. She'd grabbed a breath as he withdrew momentarily before continuing, relentlessly, the violent mouth-fucking. But before she could complain, her arousal had blazed, building toward a crisis, as the pounding, anonymous prick slammed into the back of her throat. "Mmmmpff! Mmmmpff! Gugh!" Her muffled, gagging grunts, emphasizing each thrust, ran counterpoint to his staccato gasps and groans.

"Unh! Shit! Unh! Oh fuck!" His rod had grown and twitched, getting harder and seemingly longer as it slammed relentlessly in and out, between her rounded lips and over her tongue, bashing her tonsils! But with every stroke the sensation had intensified, until the impending climax had almost made her crazy. She had felt like Linda Lovelace in Deep Throat, every push of the oral assault inflamed her. After minutes of punishment, the attacking tool had swelled to fill her, almost suffocating her. Ignoring her distress, the client had pulled her hard against his pubes, and held her until she almost passed out. "Aaaahhhhh!" The prolonged ejaculation, the pumping of cum down her throat, had given her no choice but to swallow – swallow or drown. And that strong, violent climax, spurting copiously into her gullet, had triggered in her a massive orgasm – literally the most powerful climax she had ever experienced – by far – thus far!

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Gwen smiled at the thought of that. But it was true, even now, most – virtually all – of her orgasms were as intense as or more intense than any she had had up to that point. So the best just kept getting better and better. The 'most intense orgasm of her life' occurred with amazing frequency.

Interestingly, it had only been a few weeks ago that she had had her first black client. And it hadn't, in her mind at least, started out too well. The memory played across her thoughts like a video clip.

As he had entered from the dimness of the entry hall into the halo of the bed, he was already exercising an arrogant swagger. "Hey, hey, hey! Look what we have here." His flipping hand gesture made it unclear as to whether he was talking about Gwen – sprawled invitingly across the bed – or himself. His next line cleared that up quickly. "Snowy white girl like you, you ever had a feast o' black meat?"

"Can't say as I have,' Gwen had replied trying hard to hide her already growing dislike of the man.

He'd actually said, flashing a preternaturally bright smile, "You know, once you have black you can't never go back." And as lame as that was, he'd then put on a faux southern accent and said, as he removed his jacket, opened his collar, and took off his tie, "Baby, you're just gonna love this!" As he focused on getting naked, Gwen had rolled her eyes, and given a disbelieving shake of her head. She had pretty much resigned herself to a session of bullshit.

Concealing her distaste, Gwen had watched him carefully fold his clothes over the chair, and she'd had to admit, he'd disrobed with a certain kind of grace. Once undressed, he'd revealed a rather rampant erection. There was no denying that the black scepter rekindled her waning erotic interest. "Now that's rather curiously attractive," she'd thought to herself.

Watching his sturdy licorice-stick, bouncing as it led him towards her, she'd reached out as he sat down on the edge of the bed, and met him with her fingertips, fairy-touch light on his biceps. They'd studied one another for a silent moment: she, white and pristine – ready; he, black and imposing, but tentative – surprisingly unsure. Maybe it was just nerves, for her caresses had mellowed him almost immediately – his swagger and attitude had dissolved into irrelevance. She'd been surprised, too, by her own response to the touch – a rapidly growing arousal.

In that moment, as he'd mirrored her, softly touching his fingers to her arms, Gwen had marveled at the contrasts – his black against her white – piano keys. Then he'd leaned toward her, and she'd moved to meet him, body against body. She'd run her fingers over his chest, stopping for an instant to circle his nipples. Continuing her descent, she'd swirled her hands across his chiseled abs, then raked her fingers through the tight curls of his forest, taking his impatient schlong into her hand with a gentle squeeze. She had felt the heat emanating from his skin as she leaned in to kiss his breasts. Curiously, it'd seemed like his heat ignited within her a burst of passion that grew into a novel and sensuous inflammation. Her skin had tingled, as sparks twinkled along her limbs. She'd felt alive and charged, and bright against his darkness – his unknown, anonymous darkness. There was still an unfathomable excitement in the naughtiness of the whole thing.

Holding his erection still for a moment she'd watched it jerk slightly in her grip, then she'd lowered her head to take it slowly into her mouth. She'd almost expected a flavour as she inserted his twitching stiffness into the perfect 'O' of her full lips. Drawing him in slowly as she descended, she'd collapsed her cheeks slightly, to slide her wet mouth along the rippled surface of his prick. As she touched bottom, feeling him at the back of her throat, she'd bounced a bit to ensure he was fully ensconced.

His growing arousal had been evident in the way his rigidity vibrated at the back of her throat, as she took him fully past her tongue and into her throat in one smooth motion. His fingertips had played softly at the side of her head, not presuming for an instant that she needed guidance; more to keep a tactile perspective – one that was still fixed to reality.

Gwen remembered being pleased with her burgeoning skills in oral sex. Only weeks earlier she'd been a bit of a neophyte. "Now look at me," she'd thought as the slurped him into her, slipping easily past her controlled gag-reflex, then grasping the forested base of his root with her full warm lips. Even now, reminiscing, she was proud of her evolution from blow-job amateur to felatio expert.

She'd flexed her throat muscles to grip his glans, causing his hips to twitch and sending shivers through his body. When her sealed lips brushed against his wiry bush, she'd set a vacuum in her mouth, drawing her cheeks in, drawing her inner cheeks tight against the veiny surface of his hardness. Gripping him with the warm smoothness of the inside of her mouth, caressing him with her tongue, she could massage his trembling root with the very least movement of her head – indeed with the slightest, involuntary twitches of his rod. Twisting herself about his tool, she had stroked him continually, rubbing her inner cheeks radially around him.