Ron Taylor

Wife on call

CHAPTER ONE

Pam Wilson slinked one very slinky leg across her husband's body and she eased her pussy with sophisticated ease against the lump in his shorts. She put a hand on his waist, another on the side of his head, and she began to kiss him awake, the way he loved to be awakened.

Kerry's eyes opened slowly, fluttering as he awoke, and then he understood what the ticklish pressure on his mouth meant. "Hello, baby," he said, embracing Pam and angling his crotch into hers. It was all he got to say. She felt the sudden growth of his cock and she slammed her mouth down upon his, tongue jabbing furiously into Kerry's mouth as he sucked it just as furiously.

If he'd been lumpy between the legs a moment ago, he was absolutely rocky now, his dick as hard as granite, his balls big and swollen just beneath. Pam had already tugged up the tail of her nightie and she was rubbing his shorts with her bare flesh.

Kerry groaned and embraced her more tightly, and then he was moving his wife onto her back as she spread her legs to greet him. Was there any better way to start the day off? Pam didn't think so. Neither, from the way his hands attacked her body, did Kerry.

He pried his mouth loose and hovered above her, kicking away the comforter under which they'd slept. It wasn't anchored to the bed, and the swing of his foot sent it fluttering to the floor. Now they lay upon an uncovered bed, and Pam's nightie was slowly being lifted even higher, up the slight swell of her tummy, over the much more delicious swells of her tits. Kerry hiked the filmy garment between his wife's nipples and chin and for a moment he stared down at her almost completely nude body, the bulge in his shorts growing larger with each flicker of his eyes. "Jesus," he said, "most women don't look as good any time as you do first thing in the morning."

"I practice," she smirked, a slender hand reaching up to pet and stroke his pecker lump.

Ooooohhh, Jesus, he was hard! Hard and ready! She hooked her thumb in the waistband of his shorts and started to pull them down. "Hurry," she said. "It's almost seven o'clock."

And he had to be at work by nine. Thank God they lived so close to the plant! They could start the morning off right, and still have time far a nice breakfast together before he left for work. Pam tugged a little harder, and Kerry's rod sprang into view, standing up all big and red and ferocious, the way site loved to see it, the tip already moist and glistening with his pre-cum. She squeezed the tip of his dong until he moaned, and when her fingers came away they were damp with the sticky juices that already flowed from deep inside him.

He touched her pussy, and he smiled. She was damp, too, the lips of her cunt coated with a dewy ooze of moisture. God, when weren't they? His fingers slid up and down the gash of Pam's cunt, occasionally slipping through the meaty gates, and she said, "Oh, Christ, baby, don't make me wait any longer!"

Her hand flew to his cock and she began to play with him in a teasing, come-on-baby-let's-do-it fashion, sliding up and down his stiff quivery length in the slow, erotic masturbation she'd learned years ago in high school. "Mmmmm," Pamela moaned. "Mmmmm, it looks like you don't want to wait either!"

"Fuckin' A!" he grunted, throwing himself upon her. She groaned as he fell upon her body, but it was a groan of pleasure, and she spread her legs even wider, splitting her gash to its limits while he struggled to get his cock inside her.

"There," she sighed, "there! Put it right there! Ooooohhh, YESSSS! That's it, baby, that's it!"

And he was ramming deep, his big cock slamming through the tight clutching ring of her cuntal sphincter, going all the way. She could feel him banging on her cervix. Jesus, he was hot for so early in the morning, but so was she – God, wasn't she always this hot? Pam's legs shot up into the air, toes quivering toward the ceiling, and Kerry made the final lunge, burying his dick in her cunt, and she enfolded him, wrapping her heels around his body, tying them together.

She remembered seeing dogs fucking when she was a child, fucking with such fury and passion that sometimes the bitch's cunt froze around the dog's prick and the animals had to be doused with water, shocked out of their fuck-fever, before they could disengage from one, another. Wouldn't that be a trip? she thought, looking up at her husband, sliding her fingers up and down his back. Wouldn't that be a trip? "Oh, faster," she moaned. "You can do it a lot faster if you want to, baby."

Pam reached lower, cupping the cheeks of his ass. She dug into the tight, hard-muscled flesh squeezing with all her might, and felt him tense and shudder in reply. The tips of her fingers moved into the crack of his ass and she started tickling his nuts from behind. Big nuts, she thought. Big nuts that went beautifully with a big hard cock. Damn him, he was the best! The fucking best! And she ought to know!

"Screw me like a whore," she panted into his ear as he chewed on her shoulder. Her fingers pinched at one of his balls. "Screw me like a whore. Get your hundred dollars worth out of me, baby!"

And did he screw her like a whore? Goddamned right he did! He loved to hear her say all the dirty words. "Fuck me," she whispered. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! Use your big cock!"

He really got horny when he heard her saying things like that. Most men did. Well, what the hell? Pam liked to say the words too, but even more than saying, she liked to feel it, a big fierce cock burrowing in and out of her snatch like a jackhammer gone bananas, and she clenched her legs on Kerry while she kept toying with his ass and his balls.

"Hurry," she moaned, "I'm almost there!"

"You're not the only one," he grunted in reply. God, he smelled so good this morning! All clean and fresh, but with an underlying texture of arousal, the sweat forming in his armpits and around the root of his cock, the sweat that she could smell, that made similar beads of perspiration form all over Pamela's body. They were great together, really great. She gave him all he could handle, and then some.

His cock rammed hard, fast, six or seven strokes a row that left her breathless, a hot explosion building in her guts. "Again!" she husked. "Again!" And he did it again, and this time she erupted around him, her pussy full of bubbly girl-milk, the muscles dancing along the shaft of his cock. "Come in me," she invited sensuously. "Shoot me full of your hot juicy cum!"

"I can't wait – Jesus – here goes…"

And he was doing it then, blasting her guts full of jism, fucking in and out through the combination of male and female juice that filled Pam's pussy, fucking with squish-squishes of excitement that made her toes tingle and the nipples of her tits throb against his hard, hairy chest. She lurched upward, sucking his pecker up her cunt, drinking the hot man-milk he fed her hungry animal of a hole, and they pressed together for what seemed an eternity, her legs tight around him, her cunt massaging his prick, their mouths glued together.

Kerry went soft at last – she sighed – and his dick began to retreat down her pussy tube, finally slipping out altogether. He yawned, then grinned, slid off his wife, and lay down beside her. Pam looked over, taking in his smug, satisfied expression. She touched his lips with her finger. "Stop smirking," she advised, "or all the guys at the plant will know what you've been up to. And before breakfast, yet! Sometimes I think you don't have a lick of moral sense."

"Let 'em eat their hearts out, too," he said contentedly. "Anyway – I'd rather knock one off with you than eat breakfast. Any day of the week. If that's being immoral, then let's hear it for immorality."

"Rah rah rah," Pam giggled, snuggling close. She squeezed her thighs together, relishing the feel of hot cum as it leaked from the tender, well-fucked lips of her snatch. The bedsheets would have to be washed soon, or else they'd be spotted with jism. But what better proof of a good marriage could you ask for than cum stains on the bed linen? And she and Kerry had a good marriage. The best.

"Come on," she said, toying with his dong. She felt the slightest stirring of life in his tool and she looked up, surprise written all over her face. Pleasant surprise. But they didn't have time. He was floor supervisor. He couldn't afford to be late far work.

Kerry's cock seemed to understand. The momentary spurt of energy fizzled out and he was limp in her fingers-wet and appreciably thick, but limp all the same. "To the shower," she commanded, slapping his rump. "Separate shower, preferably. Unless you'd rather make good on your words and skip breakfast? I thought not. Go ahead. I'll hop to the kitchen and scramble your eggs for you."

He caught her by the hand, pulled her back for a kiss. His hand shot into her crotch and he delved in her sticky wet cunny with a skilled, experienced thumb. "Mmm," she said, "I think you've already scrambled my eggs for me, baby." He withdrew his thumb and sniffed it. "Not bad," Kerry went on. "Hey, why don't you put this on my eggs instead of ketchup?"

When he came out, she had his lunch packed and was just setting out the eggs, bacon, toast and tea. Kerry was dressed in his work clothes but as he walked by the stove he made a not-too-subtle grab for Pam's ass, and she wandered what kind of work he'd rather do this morning. He always seemed to get really horny about the middle of the week, and this was Wednesday morning. Twice last night before going to sleep, again when they'd both awakened to go to the bathroom at the same time and it seemed too good a chance to waste, and again this morning.

"Knock it off, stud," she advised in a mock-tough voice. "You can't afford to miss a day's pay, the way prices keep going up at the supermarket. And if you raise that thing for me again, I won't let you go before nightfall."

"Promise or threat?"

She sat down at the table with him, felt his knees bump her under the table. Their eyes met, and she saw the lust in his. God, it never seemed to go away, that look of lust! She grinned, then stirred sugar into her tea.

"One of the brass from New York is coming down this week," he said. "Today or tomorrow. Mr. Sheppard has warned me to be on my toes. I may get that promotion."

"Oh, fantastic!" she enthused. "I mean, it isn't as if you deserve it or anything. You've already shown the Company how to save three-quarters of a million a year! Do you really think they'd move you up to managerial?"

He shrugged. "It would be nice. I could trade in the work clothes for a Brooks Brothers suit, and we could maybe get the house paid before 1989. Even so, we're not hurting. Are we?"

"Not as long as we have each other."

"That's my girl." He felt her leg under the table, and Pam's cunt began to moisten. She felt her breath coming in short husky gasps as his fingers lifted the hem of her nightie and slid up her thigh, and she pulled her chair back. "Sorry," he apologized. "Hey, I'd better get moving."

She stood in the doorway, watching till his car turned at the end of the block, and then she went back inside, closing the door behind her. And, as she'd been doing three mornings a week for the past three months, she went to the telephone and dialed a number.

"Good morning," said a crisp female voice. "Logan Answering Service."

Pam Wilson said, "This is Patricia Wright. Have there been any messages for me?"

A moment of silence. "Yes. A Mr. Charles would like to meet you for an early lunch. Eleven o'clock, at the usual place. He has another appointment for twelve. A Mr. Ford wants to see you at one o'clock. The Capri. And a Mr. Webber wishes to make an appointment for two-thirty, at the usual place. Do you wish to leave any messages, Ms. Wright?"

Pam thought a moment. It would be rushing a little, but probably no trouble. "No. It's okay. Thank you very much." She hung up. It was going on nine. She'd better haul ass and make herself beautiful for that lunch date.

All of them were old friends… Mr. Ford, Mr. Charles and Mr. Webber. At least she wouldn't have to be breaking in a stranger today. She knew what to expect with each of them, and she could handle it with ease.

She turned on the shower and removed her nightie, her body already aglow with the anticipation of the day. "Hot damn," she said, stepping into the shower cabinet, "Patti Wright strikes again!"

CHAPTER TWO

Pamela Wilson stepped into the shower, but the pink, scrubbed body that emerged belonged to someone else altogether, someone who liked to be called Patricia Wright. In some ways, she thought, I'm like a Mrs. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde. She stood on the bath mat, rubbing herself dry with a soft, fluffy monogrammed towel, and then she walked to the full-length mirror.

She liked what she saw. She always liked what she saw in her mirror. Pam Wilson – Patti Wright – the same beautiful woman, no matter which name she was using.

Very tall – five-nine in her bare feet, with a full, flowing mane of lustrous dark hair. Wideset, sparkling eyes, small chin, generous mouth that revealed gleaming ivory teeth when she smiled. Cream-colored skin that was too delicate to burn leathery in the sun come summertime. A generous figure, constructed on the lines of 38C-24-37, the hips just a shade narrow for her tits but a stunningly crafted piece of work indeed. Pam cupped her tits from beneath and lifted gently. Her breasts were large and full, but at twenty-six they hadn't begun to sag at all yet, and she was more grateful than words could express.

The nipples were enormous, large pink circles surrounded by a tracery of blue veins, and the tips of her nipples extended almost an inch when they were aroused. Pam rubbed those tips with her fingers until her nipples were aroused, and she was delighted to see that they still extended almost an inch. She squeezed her tits from beneath, squeezed until the nipples throbbed and tinged, and then she ran her hands down her smooth-skinned, slightly convex stomach, onto her pelvic bones. The tips of her fingers laced through the tangle of dark, matted-wet pubic hair that fleeced Pam's cunt, and she pressed down, tickling the lips of her gash.

She was wet, her hair fallen in soaked strands around her face, and she wasn't wearing any makeup, but she knew that she looked good, and Pamela was pleased with the knowledge. She held her breath a moment, saw the pink flush spread over her face. Mmmmm! She gave her shower-wet pussy one last caress, then hurried into the bedroom to begin putting on her face. If she was to meet Mr. Charles at eleven, she'd have to hurry. Pam sat down at her vanity table and began to apply mascara to her eyes. In a little more than an hour and a half she'd be in a man's hotel room, renting that man the use of her body for his sexual pleasure.

It was strange, in a way. She'd never considered herself a promiscuous person – not as modem morals went. And she didn't feel the slightest dissatisfaction with her life as Mrs. Kerry Wilson, wife of a man who loved her very much, who catered to her slightest whims, who had never during their two and a half years of marriage relented in his sexual desire for her body or his love for her.

He wasn't her first man, of course. He'd never asked her for details about her previous sexual experiences, because to him it didn't matter. And she wasn't his first woman, either, not by a long shot. That didn't matter. She and Kerry clicked together and, almost from the moment she met the man Pam had known that someday he would be hers.

Pam was from a small town in the north-central part of the state. Her father was a foreman in the mines and she was one of four children – two brothers and a sister – all of them younger. She grew up much like any other girl of her generation – puberty at eleven, and it was embarrassing at first, because of the changes in her body that seemed to smack her all at once.

At twelve she was taller than most of the boys, and her tits and ass were both already well developed. She used to get snickers and whistles from boys whose heads barely reached her shoulder, and that had its embarrassments, too, but as time went on and the boys started shooting up taller and taller, she didn't mind so much. She knew she was pretty, even without being told, but it was nice to be told, and she was, often enough. In high school Pam was a "B" student, cheerleader, homecoming princess, and very popular girl in general. She wasn't sure, then, what she wanted to do with her life, but at fifteen she discovered a delightful way to pass time while waiting to decide.

DuBois was a small town, but somehow she managed not to get a reputation for wildness – at least, not a reputation that filtered back to her parents. And that was very nice. It meant that Pam could fuck discreetly and with carefully chosen partners who wouldn't go shooting their mouths off all over town. The only problem was the one faced by every teenager living at home – where to get it on.

By the time of her graduation, Pamela Jean Barbour was an expert at finding places to get it on. She'd been fucked in cars, at drive-in movies, on Sunday picnics in the woods, once in an empty school classroom during lunch hour. And there was a crazy weekend, when her parents and siblings went out of state to visit Grandma and Grandpa.

Pam had invited her current boyfriend over; he'd told his parents he was going camping with some buddies, and the coast was clear.

They drank some of Daddy's bourbon and smoked a lot of grass, and she was positive, thinking back, that he hadn't gone soft once between Friday evening and Sunday afternoon. They hardly even took time out to eat. Well, maybe he had a sandwich now and then, since he was a hungry, growing boy, but Pamela took most of her nourishment directly from his cock, down her gulping eager throat.

By the time her parents came home she was walking bowlegged, and her jaw felt as if it had been permanently set out of line. But it was a good weekend, easily the best of her life to that time, and she relished the adventure of it. What if her parents had come home early, unexpectedly early, and caught her and Jimmy doing it?

Jesus, he'd fucked her in every room of the house! Once he'd sat her on the edge of the breakfast table and punched cock up her snatch until she creamed and screamed; it had dribbled out of her afterwards, that pungent, tangy cum of his, and she was positive that there was a permanent stain on the tabletop. A eighteen-year-old girl didn't get that many chances to flirt with danger, but this one was dynamite on balls.

She went away to college – not far away, but far enough that it was too dangerous a drive on snowy winter roads, so Pam got to move out of her home and into a kind of freedom. Dorm life was, in its own way, more restrictive than life at home, but her parents were eighty miles away and no one really cared what she did on her own time. The two years she spent there were enjoyable ones, and she made the most of them.

Going back to DuBois was but of the question. She was a trained secretary now, with an A.A. degree, and she was free as a bird in the bargain. After a short stay with her parents, Pam moved again, all the way across state to the big, big city, in search of all the things young girls go searching for – love, happiness, a job, a life – and, in Pam Barbour's case, adventure, too.

She found an apartment, and she found a job that helped her pay the rent, buy food, and enjoy a few of the luxuries. She was twenty then, free to do what she wanted, and she did as much as she could. For awhile she ran with a crowd that was into a heavy drug scene, and she tried nearly everything still nourishing that sense of adventure and excitement that smoldered in her plush, full bosom. Drugs. Sex. At the time they seemed a natural combination.

With marijuana, sex was slow and dreamy, a lazy cock sliding in and out of her twit, her clit swelling and subsiding and swelling all over again, and her orgasms were equally slow and dreamy, protracted explosions she could, taste by the millisecond. With add, sex was crazy, colors coming to life all around her, weird beautiful pictures before her eyes, equally weird, equally beautiful music throbbing in her head, throbbing so plainly, so vividly she could see the music and hear the colors. With cocaine sex was like dynamite blowing out the side of a mountain, heat in the crotch and a cool, air-conditioned breeze fluttering through her brain.

But it got boring after a while, once she'd tried all the non-addictive drugs, and her friends eventually grew boring, too. For most of them, dope was the end-goal in itself. Most of the guys in her circle seemed to be drifting deeper and deeper into narcotics and hallucinogens, and it was fucking up their sex drives. They still enjoyed having girls around, but they had apparently forgotten what to do with them. And besides, after a few months, the nonstop psychedelic rock music that was a fixture of her friends' lives had begun to affect Pam's eardrums. She didn't think her hearing was quite so sharp any more, and that worried her.

And besides that, she noticed that her friends were basically dirty people, living in dirty apartments, and some of it was starting to rub off on her. Oh, hell, Pam thought, there's nothing new with those people! It's the same old shit every time I see them! I'm getting into a rut. She quit her job, moved out of her apartment, and went looking for something new.

And she found it. A new job, a new pad. Three or four times she changed jobs, each time moving into a slightly better position at a slightly higher salary, and most of those job and apartment changes were intimately connected with Pam Barbour's sex life. She tried shacking up several times, but it never lasted more than a few months. Boyfriends got boring when you saw them every day and every damned night too, and it always ended with Pam packing the guy's clothes and leaving them outside the door, the first thing he'd see when he got in from his own job. Well, why not? She hadn't formed relationships on a permanent basis with any of those men. And it was her apartment. She wasn't stupid enough to get into a position where she'd be the one to receive walking papers.

During one of her unattached periods she met Kerry Wilson, purely by accident. She backed into his car at a supermarket parking lot. They exchanged names and insurance companies and, just to be safe, telephone numbers. The damage was minimal, it turned out, and he called her the next night to report that fact and to ask her for a date. She'd found him quite attractive, even under the embarrassing circumstances of their first meeting, and she accepted.

When he brought her back to her apartment, Pam discovered that Kerry Wilson was far more attractive than she'd noticed at first glance. "You're very good-looking," she told him, lying on her bed waiting for him to finish undressing. "You have a hairy chest, which is something I really go for, you know, and – oh, God, you have a beautiful cock!" He'd just pulled down his shorts and let his dick spring free, and the sight took her breath away. In a few moments, the insertion of that big cock in her hungry, wet cunt also took her breath away. She locked her legs and arms around him and fucked him till he screamed for mercy, which didn't come until morning.

They lived together for several months, much longer than she'd ever lived with anyone else, and the glow didn't evaporate. All day at the office she found herself lusting for her man, eagerly anticipating the moment when they'd meet after work and she could feel his hard, strong body tight against hers.

He was a couple of years older than Pam, an Army veteran, currently working blue-collar at one of the suburban manufacturing plants. Making good money already, he was ambitious. Some day he'd be white collar, she was certain. And when he finally brought up marriage, she said yes, yes, yes! Two years later, the glow still hadn't worn off, not in the slightest. It was perfect. All of it. She'd found what she wanted. Security, a home in the suburbs that would be hers and Kerry's in a few more years, and, most important, a man who was crazy about her, a man who drove her mad with longing. What else could she ever want or need?

She found out.

It was the afternoon a few months ago when she and Julia Cameron were supposed to meet for lunch and an afternoon's shopping in the city. Julia was an old friend from Pam's last job, married now too, and living with her husband and baby in a suburban home on the far side of the city from the bedroom community where Pam and Kerry and the bank shared ownership of a darling house. It had been too long since she'd seen Julia; there were a million things to talk about, a million new stores to investigate.

They were to meet for lunch at the Hartford House, one of the city's better-known hotels, and Pam arrived shortly after eleven, a little early. Eleven-thirty came and went, and there was no sign of Julia. Pam had a salad and then, after the lunch crowd thinned, called her friend. No answer. Shaking her head, Pam went into the cocktail lounge. A drink might help her pass the time. She ordered a sweet vermouth on ice, drank it, had another. The lounge was almost empty this time of day. The bartender tried to make small talk but she didn't feel like chatting. As she sipped her wine, Pam kept looking round, expecting to see Julia at, any moment.

"Excuse me," a voice said behind her, "is this seat taken?"

She turned around. A man was standing there. Apparently he'd just come in, while she was stirring the ice in her drink with a swizzle stick. Well-dressed, maybe thirty-five or so, graying at the temples, rather distinguished-looking, she thought. Probably a businessman in town for – what else? – some kind of business. Pam looked down the row of stools. The only one occupied was the stool one which her perky ass was planted. She smiled. It was a very old ploy.

"Sure," she smiled. "Have a seat."

"I wonder," the man said, "if anyone's told Lynda Carter how much she looks like you." Pam frowned. Lynda Carter? Oh, sure! WONDER WOMAN, on the tube! The lady whose program Kerry never missed ("One of these nights," he'd say, "her boobs are gonna pop right out of that sexy costume, and I don't intend to miss it!"). Well, maybe there was a slight resemblance. Same dark hair, nicely-cute faces, excellent bodies. And it was a fairly original come-on. At least he didn't say, "You look very much like, etc."

His name was Richard Mason and he was from Cincinnati, here on business, just as she'd guessed. He bought her a drink and they chatted, and just about the time Pam decided Julia wasn't going to arrive and she'd better be on her way, Richard put his hand on her knee, leaned close, and said, "I would guess you for a cool hundred. Mmmm?"

It took her a moment to figure out what he meant. Oh, my God! Pam thought. He thinks I'm a hooker!

"Shall we?" Richard went on, giving her knee a little squeeze.

Pam shivered, and he must have felt that shiver run through her leg. He leaned closer still and kissed her on the ear. Where her hair was pulled back, and she could smell expensive after-shave, the hint of tobacco, and the general aroma of a handsome, attractive man in prime physical condition. "My room is upstairs," he whispered, tongue dabbing at her ear.

An elegant whore, she thought. He thinks I'm an elegant whore. He wants to give me a hundred dollars for a piece of my ass! She moved her head around, slid her leg out of his grasp. For a moment she was prepared to slap him in the face and tell him that she was a respectable married woman.

But she didn't. A whore, she thought. An elegant whore. Worth a cool hundred. Oh, Julia, she thought, if you don't come walking through the door right now, I think I'm going to-to… And then she looked round again, smiling.

"Does the desk clerk mind if we go up together, or would you rather have me come up by myself?"