Working girl

Graham pondered what to do next, in his mind he had the love of his life go to a high class tattooist, get something that she had always wanted but was too scared to get and get a piercing, he imagined the tattooist being a dark haired pin-up girl with sleaves of tattoos and a hour glass figure, he couldn't be further from the truth.

I though entered his mind, He should get Tammy a gift, something to reward her, and let her go out and let her hair down, he knew his sweet sensible wife and she would always say no to any gifts or treats that he would get her but now was different, he went onto amazon and ordered something sexy but classy with a note attached.

Tammy stood in her bedroom, the package ripped open on the floor. The note was short.

“Put this on. High heels. Nothing else. Go to the pub. Three drinks. Don’t say no.”

She stared at the clothing in her hands. Expensive fabric. The kind of thing models wore in magazines, only sluttier. the stranger had got the size wrong. Too small. Deliberate or just a typical man mistake, she couldn’t tell.

She wriggled into it anyway. The dress barely covered her. Her tits were spilling out of the top, pierced nipples straining against the fabric, visible in the right light. The hem clung to her thighs, riding up whenever she bent or stretched. She tugged it down, but there wasn’t enough fabric to cover the round swell of her ass. Her heels made her legs look longer, calves tightening, thighs flexing.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror and flushed.

Red hair wild around her face. Pale, freckled skin that looked even whiter against the dark fabric. Freshly shaved mound smooth between her thighs, the outline of her pussy visible whenever the dress shifted. She looked obscene. Not like a business analyst, not like Graham’s wife. Like a whore.

And she was wet. Again. Always wet now. Her body betrayed her, cunt slick just from the humiliation of seeing herself like this.

She almost backed out. Almost ripped it off, curled on the couch, pretended she hadn’t seen the note. But the thought of defying the order made her stomach twist. The consequences were always worse.

So she went.

The bar was a dive. The kind of old man’s pub that stank of beer mats, piss, and smoke ground into the walls from decades past. The air was thick, sticky with lager and sweat. The floor tacky under her heels.

The second she walked in, conversation dropped.

Every head turned.

A dozen men, all older than her, hunched over pints and shot glasses. Faces lined, eyes bloodshot, some still in work clothes, others in tracksuits. Not a single woman. Not one. Until her.

The silence burned. She felt their stares like hands all over her body. Her tits, her legs, her ass, her cunt pressed tight under the too-small fabric. They drank her in, heads cocked, lips curling into smirks.

Tammy’s cheeks flamed. Her thighs clenched as she crossed the room to the bar. She ordered a drink, voice shaking. The barman didn’t even ask what kind. Just poured, eyes glued to her cleavage.

She tried to sip it calmly, to pretend she belonged, but her reflection in the back mirror betrayed her. A tart. A slut playing dress-up.

The first man came over. Grey stubble, builder’s arms, belly hanging over his jeans. He leaned in close, the smell of beer and sweat hitting her nose.

“You lost, darlin’?” His eyes flicked down to her chest, lingered. “Or you working?”

Her stomach flipped. Working. He thought she was a prostitute.

Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman flashed through her mind. A joke she’d made to Graham once, years ago. Now it was real.

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t correct him. She just gave a small, nervous smile.

The man grinned, teeth yellow, and went back to his table, whispering to his mates. Their eyes lit up. More whispers. More grins.

The second drink went down faster. So did the third. By then she was buzzing, head light, body humming with the thrill of it. The whispers had spread. She was the only woman in the bar, dressed like that, flushed and fidgeting, and they all thought the same thing.

A working girl.

She leaned back against the bar, legs slightly apart, dress riding high, and let them think it.

Men approached. One at a time, in pairs. Their eyes greedy, their laughter low and dirty. Some brushed against her “accidentally,” their hands grazing her thigh, her hip. She didn’t pull away.

Her cunt ached. The humiliation was like fire.

By the time she drained the third glass, she was shaking. Not from fear. From need. Her nipples hard, clit throbbing, thighs slick. She’d never been this wet, not even with Graham.

They mistook her for something she wasn’t, but she let them. Owned it. For the first time, she wasn’t Tammy the analyst, or Tammy the wife. She was Tammy the slut. Tammy the whore.

One of them tall, broad, skin tanned like he worked outside, a silver chain glinting at his throat pressed a crumpled note into her hand. “round the back” he said with a wink.

Her face burned. She shoved it into her bag without looking.

Tammy got to her feet and walked to the rear of the bar, a door opened to a outside smoking area, again she smiled at the stranger who looked at her and pulled his cock out "Suck it" he said and tammy froze, was he the stranger in control, or was it one of the other men, she remembered the note "Don't say no"

She smiled politely and went to her knees, the texture was stranger, the man was un-cut his shaft and loose skin a different taste to his head, she let it slide past her teeth and tasted it, the man sniggered "Good girl, no jonnie I like that"

Tammy felt hands resting on her red hair and guiding every thrust into her mouth, his pace was quickening and this made her happy her knees were killing her.

The man erupted into her mouth catching her by surprise, his hands held her in place and she coughed as she took the sticky mess not loosing a drop, eventually he softened and let go. Tammy got to hear feet trying to regain some sort of dignity, but the sight of two other men watching eroded that.

The next was the first man who spoke to her with the builder’s arms, belly hanging over his jeans, he gave her cash, she wasn't sure how much but put it in her bag, "My turn now" he growled and Tammy began to sink to her knees, the man shook his head, "Naw hen I want to fuck that sweet pussy of yours"

Tammy looked at him, she had only been with Graham, now she was giving herself to a stranger, behind a pub, she really was a whore now. With that she turned bent over a broken table and pulled her skirt up slightly from the back fully aware that her shaven pussy and pierced clit were on display.

A rough hand glided up her thighs and cupped her, "fuck your warm" he whispered "And wet" Tammy remained silent, big hands rested on her hips and she felt something big and blunt graze her slit.

The thrust took her breath and made her gasp, she felt stretched with this new cock entering her, her full body shudder and her heavy breasts fell free of the poorly fitting top, the man was relentless, there was no concern for her pleasure, she though of Graham, he knew where to touch her and what position stimulated her the most but this was different, in the past she had made love now she was being fucked.

Low moan left her lips, as she took the punishment, the man missed his step and his cock slipped out and for a second Tammy felt empty, she reached underneath herself and pushed it back in, he continued, she could feel heavy balls hitting of the inside of her thighs then the thrusting intensified, the man kept himself deep and she knew what would happen next, he pulled her him tight to him and filled her, she felt the sudden warmth of his cum coating her walls then he pulled out, walking back into the pub tucking his cock away as casually as if he had just went for a piss.

Tammy panted feeling liquid drip down her thighs, she opened her legs more so that the thick white fluid didn't land on her shoes, the third man was watching, he was much older than the other two, thin and wiry, looking like he had worked with his hands all of his days, he dropped money into Tammy's back and stood behind her.

Tammy didn't speak she reached underneath herself keeping the same submissive position, she took the mans thin hard cock in her hand and he pulled back "I don't want some stinkin bastards sloppy seconds" the words hurt Tammy, here she was rejected as sloppy seconds.

Confusion hit her what was the old man going to do she heard a spitting noise and then rubbing against her asshole, she straitened immediately as a finger entered her.

She wanted to scream out "No, not there" but again she was not allowed to say no!

The feeling was strange, Graham had never tried anything like this before, and Tammy wasn't sure if she would have let him, the sensation felt like she was trying to pass something but in reverse, she tried to relax as the cock entered her, but it was alien, the older man held her as he entered her, she could feel his hot breath against the back of her neck "Fuck your tight" he mumbled, she felt like she was there for an age, and reached under herself, she felt his cock only the head was in, the rest was still out in the cold, anger filled her, she had taken pleasure from the last man but this was too strange too small and not in the right place, she reached further and cupped his balls then squeezed hard, the squeal made her ears ring, he pushed a little more in, and for a second Tammy felt good, then she squeezed again harder. The man was making small pomping motions, it was clear that he wanted to finis, this had started as a control thing for him but now no it the bitch had him by the balls.

Tammy felt a warm gush in her and released the abused balls, the man pulled back panting and she stood, liquid still dripping from her and pushed her tits under the fabric. By the end, she could barely walk straight in her heels. Not from the booze. From the slick heat dripping down her thighs.

When she finally stumbled back into her flat, the dress was twisted, her tits half out, her hair a mess. She pulled out the notes, smoothing it on the counter. Fifty quid.

She dropped to the couch, legs spread, cunt glistening, dress bunched around her waist. She snapped a picture, flushed face, tits spilling, thighs wet, her pierced clit gleaming, the note crumpled in her hand.

Send.

No words. Just proof.

In Canada, Graham’s phone buzzed. He opened the image, and his breath caught.

His wife. Red hair wild, pale skin glowing with sweat, eyes glassy with arousal. Fifty quid in her hand. Her thighs glistening.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, cock hard as stone.

He hadn’t told her to fuck anyone. He hadn’t told her to take money. But the image screamed it anyway.