True story.... My wife's first time escorting this past summer

This happened this past June and now I cant get enough of men calling up my wife to have a sexy night with her !!!
An AI helped me write this but it is true.

I was at the foot of the stairs before the ice had even settled in my drink. Our arrangement was new, fragile, a delicate crystal goblet we were both terrified of dropping. She’d proposed it, the idea of a summer as an escort, we’d joked about it but after she was laid off we made it real. The theoretical was one thing. The reality was a live wire in my chest.

I found her in our bedroom, still in the elegant emerald dress she’d left in, leaning against the vanity. She’d already kicked off her heels. The scent of her perfume, something expensive and citrusy, mixed with the faint, unfamiliar musk of night air and another man’s cologne. My mouth went dry.

“Well?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She picked up her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. “My date was great! Had some drinks and oysters at one of my favorite spots, some intellectual conversation and some sexy flirting.”

I watched her, mesmerized by the casual sway of her hips as she recalled the evening. She was drawing it out, making me wait. It was exquisite torture.

“I know you saw me at the bar before you left,” she continued, her eyes lifting to meet mine, dark and sparkling with a secret. “What you couldn’t see was my date’s hand sliding up my dress to feel me as we sat there.” She let the words hang in the air, a challenge and a confession. “Not sure if anyone else around us saw but if they did, oh well.”

A sharp, hot jolt went straight to my groin. The image was instantaneous, vivid: my wife, serene and beautiful at a bar, a stranger’s hand mapping the territory that was mine, under the table, in public. The sheer, brazen audacity of it. Hers. His. Ours. I had to sit down on the edge of the bed.

“Tell me,” I breathed, the words barely audible.

She came to stand before me, placing her hands on my shoulders. Her scent enveloped me. “We went back to his place. He had champagne. He was a perfect gentleman… until he asked if he could kiss me.” She leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. “I said yes. I think the anticipation was killing him.”

Her words were a catalyst. I could see it. Him, unzipping that beautiful dress, his hands, probably well-kept, businessman’s hands, pushing the silk from her shoulders. She was naked now in my mind, standing in some stranger’s penthouse.

“He undressed me quick,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a husky register that scraped against my nerves, “and headed south to pleasure me.”

My hands found her waist, gripping the smooth fabric of her dress. I was hard, painfully so, straining against my jeans. “How?”

“A warm tongue.” The simplicity of the phrase was devastating. “He got me so wet, so fast. I came twice before he even….” She trailed off, her eyes holding mine, watching the effect each word had on me. She saw the desperate need on my face and her smile widened. She was enjoying this. Power. She had absolute power.

“Then what?” I prompted, my voice tight.

“Then I took his deliciously sized cock in my mouth.” My grip on her waist tightened. “I sucked and licked until he asked me to stop because he didn't want to cum yet.” Pride swelled in her voice, a dark, possessive pride that mirrored my own. She had that effect. She could reduce a powerful man to a begging, desperate creature with just her mouth. The knowledge was an inferno.

“And then he fucked me.” The crude word from her elegant mouth was the most erotic thing I’d ever heard. She pressed herself against me, her heat searing through my clothes. “It felt so good. Him filling me up.” Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, lost in the memory. “He kept telling me what an amazing pussy I have, how perfect I felt, until he came so fucking hard.”

A low groan escaped me. I could hear it. The slap of skin, his guttural sounds of release, the way her body would have moved against his expensive sheets.

She opened her eyes, looking down at me with a gaze of pure, unadulterated triumph. “So satisfying for me to make him cum. He deserved it for such a fun evening and spoiling me so well.”

That was it. The final thread of my control snapped. I pulled her down onto my lap, my mouth crashing onto hers. I could taste the faint, ghostly remnant of champagne on her lips. My hands were everywhere, relearning the curves another man had just worshiped. She melted into me, her own hunger rising to meet mine, a feedback loop of pure, raw need.

“Did you think of me?” I growled against her neck, my fingers finding the hem of her dress, pushing it up her thighs. “When he was inside you, did you think of me? Of this?”

She gasped as my fingers found her, slick and incredibly warm. Evidence. “Every second,” she panted, her head falling back. “I thought of you waiting for me. I thought of telling you. It made me… God, it made me come again.”

That was all I needed to hear. I flipped her onto the bed, the emerald dress riding up around her hips. She was bare underneath. Ready. Her eyes were glazed, her lips parted, her body thrumming with the aftershocks of one man and the anticipation of another.

I stripped my clothes off, my own body aching, a live wire about to spark. I covered her body with mine, the weight of me familiar, the context terrifyingly new. I was about to reclaim what was mine, to touch what he had touched, to feel what he had felt.

My wife. The escort.

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