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From: (The Mad Dabbler)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Story: "Business" (text only version)
Date: Thu, 09 May 1996 13:46:36 GMT
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Business 
by Tristmegistis 
 
(Note: illustrated version posted simultaneously in html format with 
three jpg's as "business.zip (276KB).) 


 
     It wasn't strange for Alyssa to ask to come with me on the 
business trip to San Francisco last spring.  We travelled together 
as often as we could afford it.  She adored SF, and she said something

about having an old college chum in the area she wanted to see. 
The oddness began when I came back to the hotel around six-thirty 
after a rather gruelling day and she wasn't there.  The plan had 
been for her to be back well before I was. 
 
     We had dinner reservations for eight.  When she had neither 
appeared nor called, I started to get worried.  By around nine, 
I was frantic.  I was wildly searching the room for her friend's 
address and phone number when I finally stumbled across the note 
she'd left me on the bed where I'd accidentally covered it with 
my suit coat. 
 
     It was short and simple.  "Darling; Meet me in the bar 
across the street as soon as you can for a very, very special 
before dinner 'treat.'  A." 
 
     Feeling like an idiot, I ran for the elevators, shrugging 
into my jacket and tightening my tie on the way.  The way she'd 
emphasized the word "treat" could mean only one thing; 
Allie was up for some games. 
 
     During nearly ten years of married life, we'd "treated" 
one another to special fun every few months, just to keep the 
juices flowing in our otherwise humdrum existence.  She was as 
sexually imaginative as I was, and we'd had enormous fun together 
virtually every time we played our little games.  Our rich and 
varied fantasy life forbade the sort of boredom that we'd seen 
spell doom for so many relationships.  I felt bad for keeping 
her waiting and was more than eager to see what she had up her 
sleeve for tonight. 
 
     The watering hole she'd selected was exactly the opposite 
of the clean, upscale bar in the hotel.  The lighting was dim 
and the air smoky.  The crack of pool balls meeting competed with 
the bluesy rock of the juke box.  This was definitely *not* 
the sort of place I'd have expected my fastidious, conservative 
wife to pick for a romantic rendezvous.  Even after a decade, 
she never ceased to surprise me. 
 
     I lingered just inside the door and gave my eyes a few moments 
to adjust to the murky reddish light.  The place was moderately 
crowded, but not with the sort of clientele I was accustomed to 
rubbing elbows with.  I was way overdressed in my suit.  The men 
here favored jeans and sports shirts.  Most of the women arrayed on 
the bar stools appeared to be what are referred to, in polite 
circles, as "working girls." 
 
     My eyes, already watering slightly from the thick smoke, 
nearly bulged from their sockets as I recognized the profile of one of

the hookers as my wife.  She was perched on a bar stool, glaring 
coldly at the man to her left, who was totally occupied by staring 
down between the lapels of her black leather blouse.  It afforded 
him plenty to stare at.  The pale globes of her moderately sized 
breasts were quite exposed, as was an astonishing amount of slim, 
black-meshed leg.  Her hair had been transformed from a sleek 
shoulder length medium brown hue to a midnight black cloud fluffed 
wildly around her head. 
 
     As I shook myself from my paralysis and hurried toward her, 
she became aware of my tardy arrival.  Her glower was replaced 
by a fleeting widening of her darkly made up eyes before she settled 
into a suitably oblique and trampish look of appraisal.  I took 
the empty stool to her right.  Her perfume was overpowering and 
as cheap as her look.  The man to her left looked disgruntled 
as he tossed off the last of his drink and vacated his place, 
muttering something unintelligible. 
 
     "Buy you a drink, lady?" I offered a little lamely. 
 
     "Lady?" she snorted.  "First time I've been 
called that in the last three hours.  Real creative.  I'm drinking 
tequila sours."  She'd altered her voice nearly as much as 
her appearance.  She sounded guttural, hoarse, and more than a 
little drunk.  She almost never imbibed in anything more potent 
than wine. 
 
     I signalled the bored barkeep and held up two fingers.  She 
introduced herself as Crystal with a lingering, suggestive handshake. 
 As we idly made two-strangers type small talk, I completed my 
inventory of her.  The nails tapping her empty glass were longer 
than they'd been that morning by at least an inch, and enamelled 
the same deep red that she wore on her lips.  Part of the drama 
of her eyes was due to the false lashes weighting her heavily 
tinted lids.  The leather of her black micro-mini length skirt 
creaked as she crossed her legs.  She deliberately bumped my calf 
with the glossy toe of a towering ebony high heel.  Her wardrobe 
was completely new, all the way down to the tiny clasp purse on 
the bar. 
 
     "You seem to like what you see," she observed dryly 
as the drinks arrived. 
 
     I paid for them.  "Mighty attractive package," 
I admitted. 
 
     Her smile was lewd as she snicked open her purse and fished 
out a long cigarette.  To my knowledge, Allie had never smoked in  
her life, but I had to admit that it was in keeping with her role.   
Her narrowed eyes locked with mine as she held it up.  "Maybe  
you'd like to unwrap it?" 
 
     I fumbled amateurishly with the matches beside the ashtray, 
noted a little numbly that there were two half smoked cigarettes 
already there.  One of her hands cupped mine as I held out the flame.

The other came to rest high on my left thigh.  Her rouged cheeks  
hollowed as she pulled the tobacco alight. 

     I cleared my throat and found my voice as the heat of her 
hand penetrated my slacks.  "Maybe I would at that.  Assuming 
it's a gift I can afford to open." 
 
     She inhaled, boggling my mind yet further, and lifted a plume 
of smoke toward the ceiling.  Her eyes raked my expensive suit 
and her hand slithered a bit higher.  "Oh, I think you probably 
can." 
 
     "How much?" 
 
     "You a cop?" 
 
     I shook my head.  "Nope.  Just in town on business." 
 
     "Didn't think so, but a girl's got to take care of herself. 
 A hundred for starters."  Her fingers lightly scraped my 
erection. 
 
     "Seems a little steep," I choked out, watching 
her breathe more smoke like she'd been doing it all her life. 
 
     Her chuckle was raw and raunchy.  "Umm, baby, I'm worth 
twice that." 
 
     Who was I to argue?  I nodded and gulped the liquor.  She 
did the same, ground out her cigarette, then slithered off her 
stool and led the way toward the door.  My eyes were glued to 
her gyrating ass.  In all our years together, after all the hot 
games we'd played, I'd never seen her so wantonly slutty, so fully 
immersed in her role.  Nor had I ever been so eager to fuck her. 
 
     She took my arm, grinding her breast into my bicep as we 
crossed the street.  As we entered the hotel lobby, her patently 
cheap and available look drew glares from the staff and clientele. 
 A staid older couple actually chose to wait for the next car 
rather than ride with us.  Even before the doors slid completely 
closed, Allie turned and brazenly rubbed her barely hidden crotch 
against mine, digging sharp nails into my buttocks. 
 
     My mouth reached for hers.  She bent backwards, avoided me. 
 "None of that, lover.  The only thing I'll kiss is that 
big cock of yours.  Unless . . ." 
 
     "Unless?" I panted, enraptured by her slick vermillion 
smile. 
 
     "Unless you've got another fifty for Crystal." 
 
     "Deal," I instantly agreed, again trying for her 
lips. 
 
     Again she evaded me.  "No so fast, honey.  Show me some 
green." 
 
     My hands were shaking as I found my wallet and completed 
the transaction.  A part of my fevered brain had completely forgotten 
this was just a wild fantasy.  I was reacting like she really 
was a painted, scantily clad whore, not my cherished wife. 
 
     After receiving payment and tucking it into her purse, she 
glued herself against me, wrapped one leg around mine in an
impassioned 
dry-fuck, and gave me the thickly painted lips I was dying for. 
 She tasted nothing like herself.  Her breath was alien, tainted 
by hours of liquor and tobacco, and her greasy lipstick was cherry 
flavored.  It was less like a kiss than a mouth fuck. 
 
     She ended the embrace when the elevator stopped, leaving 
me gasping and dizzy.  "Want to do it here, or in your room?" 
she asked with a mocking smile.  I got the distinct impression 
that, if I'd said here, she'd have followed through, just like 
a pro. 
 
     I led the way down the hall.  She pressed herself tightly to 
my side, her hand slowly massaging my dick all the way.  Once 
inside the room, I went for her mouth again, simultaneously groping 
her tits.  Her nipples were massively swollen beneath the supple  
ebony leather. 
 
     "You want to cum in your slacks, honey?" she asked 
as I came up for air.  "Wouldn't you rather pump it into 
my cunt?" 
 
     Hearing her talk so nasty and seeing her look so cheap made 
me wild.  I half threw her onto the bed and ripped off my clothes 
as she lay there with her skirt stretched above her garters and her
legs 
spread.  I was further maddened by the fact that she wasn't wearing 
any panties.  She'd even gone so far as to trim her pussy hair, 
leaving her dark pink vagina pouting openly at me, almost as if 
she'd already been fucked.  Her eyes held the same glazed urgency 
that mine must have.  Her long nails toyed with her slit as she 
watched me fight free of my clothes. 
 
     "Come on, baby," she growled.  "Stuff that 
monster dick in me.  Fuck me.  I need it real bad." 
 
     I had neither time nor patience for foreplay.  She was just 
a slut, and I was just a trick.  I damned near blew my wad the 
instant I slid into her slimy hole.  I'd never felt anything so 
hot, wet, and tight.  Shuddering, I arched my back and gritted 
my teeth, fighting the orgasm that was upon me.  She held perfectly 
still beneath me, but I felt her quaking almost as severely as 
I was. 
 
     "God," she muttered.  "God fucking damn you 
feel good.  Now ride me, you bastard.  Hammer my ass.  I want 
it hard and fast and nasty." 
 
     And that's the way she got it.  I was so brutal that I bruised 
my pelvic bone - and hers, I'm sure.  I didn't close my eyes for 
a second.  I just stared viciously down at this shameless brunette 
whore, fully clothed, her smeared red lips pulled back as she 
screamed curse words at me.  I didn't doubt for a moment that 
she was cumming like a cannon.  Her pussy was squeezing my cock 
with rhythmic pulses that would've been painful had she not been 
so thoroughly lubricated.  I have no idea how long it lasted. 
Maybe minutes, maybe hours.  But when I spewed my load, I'd never 
felt anything like it in my life.  I was momentarily afraid that 
I'd ruptured something vital and was pumping my very life blood 
into this fantastic whore.  And, even after I'd collapsed atop 
her like a slaughtered steer, I was still hard, still cumming. 
 
     I was only vaguely aware when she unlocked the ankles clasped 
around my waist and feebly tried to push me off.  Her voice was 
as weak as I was.  "We forgot the rubber.  Shit.  Let me 
up." 
 
     I managed the herculean task of flopping limply to the other 
side of the bed.  Allie gasped for what must have been two full 
minutes before struggling to her feet, fumbling for her purse, 
and shambling unevenly off to the bathroom. 
 
     Normally, I'm a once a night kind of guy, especially after 
an earthshaking orgasm like the one I'd just experienced.  Yet, 
as I lay there, listening to her running water in the lavatory, 
then flushing the toilet, the image of her the way she'd acted 
since I'd met her in the bar bloomed before me.  I wondered how 
she'd spent the time while she'd waited or me.  How many men had 
she had to fend off?  *Had* she fended them off, or could 
the overflowing wetness of her cunt have been someone else's cum? 
 I nearly laughed aloud as I felt my cock stir and stretch like 
I was a teenager again. 
 
     She emerged, tugging the tiny skirt down over her thighs, 
a fresh cigarette wagging between her lips.  She stopped before 
the mirror topped dresser and drunkenly started re-applying her 
makeup, just like a street whore about to go trolling for her 
next john. 
 
     My voiced seemed to echo in my head.  "There's another 
hundred for you if I can fuck your ass, Crystal." 
 
     She paused, put the lipstick away and grinned lewdly.  "Sure 
thing, honey.  But this time you don't ride bareback." 
 
     We'd only done anal sex twice before, but she'd come prepared. 
First, like a good whore, she demanded the money.  She brought 
a small tube of K-Y from the little purse, along with a rubber, 
and started to extinguish her cigarette. 
 
     "No.  Keep smoking while I fuck your cheap ass, slut." 
 
     I did her on her back with two pillows under her hips and 
her legs over my shoulders so I could watch her.  She fingered 
her slimy pussy and came twice more before I jerked out of her back 
door.  She whined piteously at her emptiness.  "Put it back in.   
Give it to me!" 
 
     I rolled the rubber off.  "On your knees on the floor, cunt."   
She scrabbled to obey.  I stared, haunted, down at her face while I
fisted 
myself into depositing my second huge load onto her heavily made up
visage. 
 
  I was woozy and weak, unable to do more than collapse back onto the 
soiled sheets and lay there.  I couldn't keep my eyes open as I heard

her climb to her feet.  I was asleep before she made it back to the
bathroom. 
 
     I awoke alone and confused, wondering if the whole amazing 
thing had been a wildly erotic dream.  My wallet was on the
nightstand, 
emptied of cash and credit cards.  Allie had carried the act out 
all the way, ripping off the john she'd fucked senseless.  But 
I didn't have time to lay there and savor the memory.  The travel 
alarm said I was already within fifteen minutes of being late 
for my first appointment of the day.  I made a hurried phone call, 
showered away the stench of sex and cloying perfume, threw on 
clothes and dashed out to do my daily day.  I had a hard time 
concentrating, and an even more difficult time paying for my lunch. 
 I called the hotel, and was a little concerned when she didn't 
answer.  I tried the desk, but there was no message, either. 
 
     My nerves were shot and I was more than a little angry by the
time 
I begged my way out of my last meeting and rushed - on foot, since 
I was penniless - back to the hotel.  It was after four by the 
time I got there.  The maid had attended to the room, but there 
was no sign that Allie'd been there.  At six, I ordered food from 
room service, but barely touched it.  At seven-thirty, I did the 
unthinkable.  I called the police. 
 
     I listened, in stunned disbelief, as the desk sergeant admitted 
to having her name on his blotter.  "Yeah.  A plain clothes 
officer brought her in  about three hours ago.  She's in the holding 
cell where we keep all the hookers.  No sir.  No mistake.  She 
solicited him in a bar down by the wharfs.  Pretty routine." 
 
     It took quite a while before I could get there and demonstrate 
my identity.  The officers were straight-faced and polite as I 
made Allie's bail.  She, however, was neither.  She looked sick, 
like she'd spent the day alternating between drinking, vomiting 
and crying, and was still half drunk.  She reeked of liquor, tobacco, 
and bile.  Her black leather dress was stiff with things I didn't 
want to think about.  She was so unsteady on her stiletto heels 
that I had to half carry her to the cab. 
 
     "I'm sorry," she slurred hoarsely.  "I'm so 
sorry."  That's all she could manage all the way back to 
the hotel.  She repeated it again and again, like a mantra. 
 
     The hotel manager approached as I guided her through the 
lobby, but I glared at him with such raw rage that he wordlessly 
changed direction.  I got her to bed, held her head as she dry-heaved 
into the waste-basket, and undressed her after she passed out. 
 Her lovely tits bore bite marks.  Her hips had been visibly bruised 
by the grip of powerful hands.  Her pussy smelled like a swamp. 
 A good portion of the washable black hair coloring was gone. 
 
     In her purse, in addition to makeup, condoms, cigarettes 
and my credit cards, was three hundred and eighty-five dollars 
more than I'd had in my wallet, and a room key for a hotel I'd 
never heard of.  I gave her a sponge bath and removed most of 
the filth and caked makeup covering her. 
 
     It was a very long night for me.  Agonized emotions competed 
with utter outrage at my formerly faithful wife's sleazy betrayal.   
I was still awake when she groaned and pried her eyes open just past  
nine the following morning.  She looked disoriented, then grimaced  
in pain as she tried to roll over. 
 
     "Oh, God," she whimpered.  "What happened 
to me?" 
 
     I just looked at her, silent and expressionless.  I watched 
as tendrils of memory crawled into her consciousness.  Her eyes 
filled with tears.  "No," she whispered.  "Oh, 
no." 
 
     I barely recognized my own voice.  "Do you need a doctor?" 
 I wasn't sure she heard me over her growing sobs.  I repeated 
my question. 
 
     She shook her head, buried her face between hands still bearing 
the long nails and vivid, though chipped color.  She was hysterical  
for nearly two hours before sinking into a troubled sleep.  Exhausted,
I 
lay down beside her, felt my eyelids descend like the curtain 
of doom. 
 
     I was vaguely aware of her getting out of bed.  It was hard 
to tell if the sound of the shower was dream or reality.  Despite 
being afraid she'd slide back into whore clothes and resume her 
binge, I couldn't force myself into full wakefulness.  Sometime  
later, the bed moved again, and I sensed her nearby warmth.  I  
rolled instinctively into it, felt the reassuringly familiar scents 
and contours of her body.  As I drifted back into sleep, I smelled the

mint freshness of her breath, the simple sweetness of her shampoo. 
 
     Hours later, I awoke feeling ruthless.  I had to know.   I  
mercilessly forced her to recall every possible detail of her  
debauchery.  She tried to refuse me.  She sobbed, heartbroken.  She  
didn't want to remember.  I compelled her, under threat of the most  
squalid imaginable divorce.  Devestated, she finally gave up. 
 
Yes, there'd been two men before I got to the bar.  She wasn't sure  
how many after she left me asleep, but she was positive her price  
had dropped significantly. 
 
     "What are we going to do now," she wondered shakily, 
unable to meet my eyes.  Her gaze wandered to the cash I'd spread out 
on the bedside table.  "What are we going to do with *that*?" 
 
  "You earned it.  It's yours to spend as you see fit."  I nodded 
toward the black leather outfit in the cleaner's bag near our luggage.

"Get dressed." 
 
     "Dressed?  In *that*?" 
 
     I nodded coldly.  "And made up - exactly like before." 
 
     She gave me an odd, unreadable look, wet her dry, cracked lips.

"You're sure?" 
 
     "Do it, bitch." 
 
     She wordlessly complied.  Then we fucked one another raw.  If 
anything, it was even better than the time before. 
 
     As I mentioned at the beginning of this tale, all this happened 
last spring.  There've been some changes in our relationship in 
the intervening twenty months.  One or two people have commented  
about her long, always impeccably manicured nails.  Everyone was
stunned 
at first by her midnight black hair and enlarged breasts, but they
seem  
to have grown to like both.  She's drawn a few frowns with her tobacco

habit, but she's always a considerate smoker.  The rest of the changes

are too subtle for anyone but she and I to observe. 
 
     What they don't know about is how she spends her time when 
she accompanies me out of town.  They're business trips for both 
of us, now.