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  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: D.B. Story

  Hooker, Wife, For Life © 2009 D.B. Story

  eXcessica publishing

  All rights reserved

  Hooker, Wife, For Life

  By D. B. Story

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A special thanks to Rocket Ralph, Mulligan, and VW for their excellent and much appreciated proofreading.

  Chapter 1—HOOKER

  As I rode in the back of the limousine that smelled of stale cigarettes trying to fight their way through the overpowering air freshener squirted liberally about, I wondered just what I was doing here. The bright lights of Las Vegas and my hotel on The Strip had faded behind me, to be replaced by this dark highway. I still had another forty-five minutes to go.

  Prostitution is illegal in Las Vegas and surrounding Clark County. While that doesn’t mean it isn’t available, what you’ll find there is clandestine, unregulated, and not always safe.

  For legal, regulated, licensed and inspected sex services you need to travel at least seventy-five miles into the next county. The various houses and ranches out there have banded together to solve this problem by offering “free” limousine service to and from your hotel. It’s not quite as altruistic as it sounds, because you’re quite a captive audience once you arrive at the other end, but it sounds alluring nonetheless.

  You’re not quite a complete captive, since these establishments tend to clump together. Once you’ve arrived, you can often walk between several of them, sometimes just by crossing the parking lot. But then again, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the ones that close weren’t owned by the same person—or mob. That’s how things often work out here.

  Now I don’t normally do this kind of thing. In fact, let me think. I’ve done this exactly—zero—times before. What I’m looking for I feel I’m pretty unlikely to find in any whorehouse.

  But last night I’d been sitting next to these two guys about my age at the bar while one of them absolutely raved to his buddy about this girl—Star—that he’d had that afternoon. He kept insisting how his buddy should go back with him the next afternoon for a return engagement.

  “One in a million,” the man had enthused as his buddy nodded. “And I ought to know!”

  By the time they got up and left for the Sports Book, I felt I knew every hair and pore on Star’s unseen body. If she was a fraction of what this man was claiming...

  Well, here I am in the limousine, about to find out for myself.

  * * * *

  I’m glad I’m the only passenger this ride. I wasn’t looking for any discussions about what I was intending to do next. Once the driver, an older man probably supplementing his Social Security with a little off-the-books income, realized I wasn’t in a talkative mood, he left me alone.

  Soon enough we pulled off the highway into a gravel-covered parking lot with brightly lit one-story buildings on three sides. In addition to their brightly floodlit fronts, each had windows adorned with white lace curtains illuminated by red light bulbs, and no way to see inside. Perhaps the windows were façades only, which likely matched what one should expect to find inside. The names on their signs left no doubts as to their business.

  I was dropped off in front of the establishment I’d named in my call. With nothing else to do, I went inside.

  The interior decor was overpowering RED! Red carpet. Red upholstery. Red wallpaper. Red lampshades. And mirrored ceilings that reflected the red everywhere else. I wondered just who felt the customers wouldn’t get the point without this reinforcement.

  The entrance opened up onto a typical parlor. This is where the customers meet the girls, and maybe have a drink or two from the bar down one side of the room. Alcohol is a surefire method to loosen inhibitions—and wallets.

  I took one look around the room and ran for the bar. That gave me an excuse for being there, while letting me put my back to the room. The problem being that I was the only customer at the moment. That meant that I had the undivided attention of every pair of eyes, and the sudden smiles, whenever I looked back into the room. It was intimidating.

  Using the mirror behind the bar to avoid direct glances, I observed several things. There were eight or nine women in the room, ranging from a just legal teen, who looked twenty-years-old from the waist down while appearing barely thirteen from the waist up, to a couple of women easily twice her age. Their attractiveness also varied, although that’s an individual assessment. In the dark, who can really tell anyway? What didn’t vary was the amount of make-up each one wore. It was a lot.

  The uniform du jour appeared to be a sheer negligee that strategically turned opaque just enough to obscure the breasts, along with a g-string thong and these stupid, garish five-inch-plus heels that put at least an inch and a half of plastic under the ball of the foot to make them at all wearable. There’s probably some name for them, but I sure don’t know it. And when the fad for these passes, I won’t spend a second lamenting it either. I don’t know why women think these clunky excesses made from the petroleum remains of dead dinosaurs flatter them. Or am I just old fashioned?

  One other thing. None of the women remotely resembled the description I’d heard for Star.

  * * * *

  I sat there nursing my drink while considering my options. I could slink out quietly. That would be easiest. I wouldn’t be remembered. It would be as if this all never happened.

  Or I could sit here and wait. She might be busy at the moment. And then what?

  Or I could just ask.

  It took a while to do the obvious. Fortunately things livened up a few minutes later. A couple more customers came through the front door—the start of the evening rush, I presume—and a man came from the back, followed by another woman who also was not Star. He must have just finished his business considering the big smile on his face. He handed that woman some more money and got a peck on the cheek in return.

  All this took most of the attention off of me, for which I’m profoundly grateful. I took advantage of the opportunity by motioning one of the girls over and asking about Star. I wanted to appear confident and unimpressed by the near nudity and easily available sex, but I knew I’d already blown that possibility. Every one of these women knew the sex trade far more intimately than I ever would. I’m sure they’d seen through me the first minute I got here.

  But this woman was very friendly in her answer, as though Star was her best friend, rather than a competitor for her business.

  “I’m Sheila. Star is in back right now,” she said in a surprisingly young sounding voice, which I assume meant that Star was busy with another customer. “I’m sure she’ll be out soon. I know she’ll want you to wait for her. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  She was so nice about it that I let her get me another drink and settled back to wait.

  Once the other girls knew whom I was waiting for, they quit trying to s
ell themselves to me. One brought me another refill on my drink without even being asked, and a couple moved to sit nearer me while waiting for other business.

  About twenty-five minutes later a man I recognized as the friend at the bar walked out, big smile on his face as well. About ten minutes after that, looking freshly showered, Star came into the parlor. There was no possible mistake about it.

  * * * *

  I would have been impressed if Star had been half of how she’d been described. She was at least double that, and I was speechless. This is what I noticed about her, in order.

  Her height was perfect, in that she seemed neither short, nor tall. Barefoot that would put her right around five-foot-six. She had waves of full-bodied light blonde hair cascading around her face and over her shoulders.

  That face was an all-American beauty, with bright blue eyes that seemed interested in everything around her, a nose that was also only describable as perfect, and red kissable lips. It had exactly the right shape, high cheekbones, and showed how makeup should be used—instead of how it is so often misused. More is not always better.

  The next thing to register was the deep, even tan on her bare, slim arms and flawless legs. The polish on her fingers and toes matched her lips.

  I could see her arms and legs because of her outfit. Unlike the other women, Star was attired in a white, one-piece outfit that looked easy to get in and out of. A broad width of fabric wrapped around her neck and was open in a deep-V to her waist. The fabric was bunched into corrugations over her breasts, hiding their true shape, though not their size. The fabric was loose enough on the sides to give tantalizing glimpses of their tanned sides.

  Along with a completely bare back, was a skirt that was cheerleader short. It swirled around as she walked, letting me see nearly the full length of her smooth, well-formed legs from their slim ankles to the upper flair of her thighs.

  The final touch, and the last thing I noticed, were her classy shoes. None of this clunky, ugly, modern stuff for her. Instead her foot was supported by a strip of fine leather that couldn’t have been more than a quarter inch thick. It barely seemed to separate her bare toes from the floor, before following the natural arch of her foot up to spike heels of a height that was elegant, but not trashy. It was just the right height to transform her legs into the truly unforgettable category.

  I’ve recorded all this in painstaking detail because that’s all I ever expected to see, or ever know, about Star. She was aptly named, since she is clearly the star of this house. The only thing I left out was her age. She looked to be twenty-two.

  I settled back to enjoy a good long look. That was likely the only thing that was truly free in this house. Star herself would certainly be very expensive indeed.

  I was prepared to wait until she left with another man, then leave myself. Not that I didn’t have money with me, but extras cost extra. And what I would have really wanted with Star would have been nothing but extras.

  Then the girl I’d first talked with walked up to Star and said something to her. The next thing I knew, Star was walking directly towards me.

  I can now add to my description of Star that her voice is a mellow contralto that would give new meaning to the term “telephone sex”. That she is most definitely not a high-pressure saleswoman. Not that she would ever have to be. Her body sells itself. And she really knows how to walk in those heels.

  Star pulled up a chair and started chatting with me as if we were already old friends. Considering that she might well be sucking on my dick in just a few minutes, this idea of already being old friends going in was actually quite appealing.

  Within a few brief minutes Star knew my name, hotel, that I’d be here ten more days on Phase One of my project, and might return a couple months later to start Phase Two. She also had my home city, the insane amount they were paying me to stay on site a thousand miles away for this, my favorite food, that I liked to cook, and how I’d heard about her in the first place. In return I hadn’t learned a single thing about her she hadn’t wanted to tell me.

  Oh, one more thing. Star was rapidly realizing that I might well not be a customer of hers tonight—and that this wasn’t a matter of money.

  Star took a moment to size me up, before saying carefully, “So, do you want to fuck?”

  I wasn’t shocked. I knew that at some point this conversation had to turn sexual and I admired her technique. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t above giving her a bit of a time over it.

  “Why, Star,” I said feigning amazement. “Such words from your pretty, and no doubt oh so talented, mouth. I simply don’t know how to respond now.”

  For a moment my words threw her. She’d clearly misjudged me, which probably didn’t happen often. Then she saw a smile I couldn’t hide. That got me the first genuine smile in return I’d seen out of her. Star was willing to be playful, which made her even more beautiful in my eyes.

  Her approach had been a masterstroke (pardon the pun). By coming across as vulgar herself, Star had opened herself up to any equally vulgar repartee, which much of the sex trade typically deals in. She had perhaps wondered if I really wanted something here, but had been too uncomfortable to come out and say it out loud. If so, she’d opened the door.

  I did want something from her that was difficult to ask for, but it wasn’t vulgar at all.

  “So how about it, Jeff? Do you want me, or not?”

  “I want you,” I replied simply.

  “Then what is it? What do you want?” Star was genuinely curious now.

  “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Here it is.”

  Then I told her in exacting detail precisely what I would do with her for the next two hours. After I finished, Star regarded me silently for long seconds. No doubt tallying up each extra, provided she’d agree to it at all.

  “Okay,” she finally said, and quoted me a figure which, if she worked a normal workweek, would have her clearing about $350K a year before her no doubt considerable expenses.

  I was amazed. Amazed because after what I’d overheard about her last night, I was expecting something twice as high—at least!

  My surprise must have shown because she quickly said, “Are you interested, because I really can’t go any lower than that?”

  “It’s fine,” I squeaked out, grabbing and downing the rest of my drink in one gulp to cover the breakdown of my voice.

  Star either didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice. She rose, took my hand in her soft one (her touch giving me shivers) and said, “Let’s go.”

  I let her lead me back into the depths of the house.

  * * * *

  Star’s room was surprisingly large, considering the circumstances typical in this industry. In addition to an unexpected waterbed with satin-appearing sheets, it had its own shower and separate tub, washbasin, toilet, a couple shelves of candles, lotions, oils, powders, and some sex toys whose functions I couldn’t figure out—and I’m an engineer!

  The first order of business was payment. This was not optional. Whorehouse services cannot be repossessed for non-payment afterwards. And although they will take credit cards (along with yen, won, pounds, francs, pesos, yuan, and probably gold or diamonds if you showed up with them) I’d never be foolish enough to use my credit card here. Doesn’t matter how they say the charges will actually appear.

  Star took my cash and counted it herself before sealing it in an envelope with her name and the amount written on the front in unexpectedly precise flourishes. A knock at the door a moment later revealed a young girl who silently handed Star some more fresh towels and took the envelope in return.

  Star then “locked” the door after a significant glance at a pair of large red “Trouble” buttons on opposite walls. I had no doubt that the door could be opened in an instant, if necessary.

  Just as significantly, Star reached in a drawer to pull out and place several assorted condoms on the table beside the bed. Unsafe sex as an extra was prohibitively expensive, provided that i
t would be offered at all. And it was only ever offered to well-known clients with up to the minute medical tests attesting to their clean status.

  Even so, Star’s next move was for me to remove my pants as she put on a rubber glove before taking and expertly inspecting my member. This is simply the world we live in today.

  “Anything I should know?” she asked me with a sharp look, meaning I’d passed visual inspection at least.

  “Nothing I know of,” I replied truthfully.

  “Good,” she said. “Now what do I do next?”

  “Get naked,” I replied. “And lie facedown on the bed.”

  I’d chosen this starting position intentionally. It was the one that protected her most vulnerable sexual areas. I wanted Star to be as comfortable as possible with me from the outset.

  “Okay,” she replied, turning away and slipping out of her dress so quickly before lying down that I didn’t even get a glimpse of her breasts, which I’d heard in the bar were as magnificent as all the rest of her. That was all right. Before I was done I intended to know them intimately.

  The oils and lotions were an unexpected bonus. I took a minute to look them over carefully.

  “Any of this I shouldn’t use?”

  “Mmph, no,” came her reply, muffled by the pillow she had her face on. “Take what you want.”

  “Thanks,” I acknowledged.

  Those were the last words we would exchange until the end of our session.

  Star was naturally a bit apprehensive, given her defenseless position with a relative stranger. Even relaxed, she was keeping an eye on me. I hoped to convince her soon to trust me by doing exactly what I’d promised.

  Star turned her head further to look at me curiously when I turned on the hot water in the sink and put the stopper in. Let me warn you that using cold lotion on a warm body is truly one of the all-time great mistakes you’ll ever make in life.