Because I was masturbating the entire time, it took me over an hour to get dressed. This is going to sound so vain at first, but I looked so fucking hot that I couldn’t keep my fingers out of my pussy. That’s not the only reason I was fingering myself; thinking about what I was going to be doing had me in a sexual stupor. I’d been like that all day.
It was fantasy roleplaying night. I was so excited that every nerve fiber in my body was tingling. Chatting with a friend about how much of a whore I am had me more than avidly curious about what it would be like to actually be one. I don’t know why I’m still so timid about asking my husband to fulfill my whimsical, sexual fantasies. He dressed up like a sea monster and abducted me, mating with me in his lair. When I finally found the courage to mention that I wanted a gang bang, he just smiled and said, “I’ll make some calls. Does Thursday work for you?”
Still, it took some gumption to ask him if he’d pretend to be my client while I played the role of a prostitute. “Street hooker or high-class escort? Does tomorrow evening work for you?”
I was so wet with anticipation that all I could think about was pretending to be an escort for hire. The thought of sexual roleplaying is hot enough, but knowing that you’re with somebody that’s completely into it, because you want it, had my heart thumping in rhythm with my pulsing clit. The morning after I asked, he’d left me a note. “I have everything set for us, my fire-haired goddess. Don’t worry about a thing; I’ll text you more, later.”
As always, adding mystery to anticipation had me melting. It’s a good thing I’m the boss at work because I was in such an impassioned daze that I was utterly useless. About an hour before my store was closing, I received a text from a beauty salon nearby. He’d made an appointment for me. My red hair, sun-bleached into a sickly orange hue, received a rejuvenation treatment, restoring the brightness and shine but only enhancing that orange coloring to make it seem unnatural. Trimmed into submission and professionally styled, my hair was crimped into long, flowing waves with just the perfect amount of lazy curls to ooze sex appeal. A full makeover, consisting of earthy green and charcoal hues with stiletto fingernails, made me look like a super-model version of myself, even with clown-colored hair.
I raced home, fretting over what to wear. There was just enough time to find something high-class-hooker appropriate, and I could speed back into town to meet him. However, when my husband says not to worry, he means it. On the table beside the front door was a garment box with a note folded under the red ribbons. Neatly typed on velum paper, the note bore the letterhead of Fire Goddess Escort Service. Wondering how he pulls such things off, constantly, I read the note. It began by calling me “Katrina.” That was a fun surprise. Of course, an escort wouldn’t use her real name.
Katrina;
Your date for tonight is Mr. B. He is a very discriminating, repeat client who travels for business and always demands the best of everything. While he is the perfect gentleman, his kinks are seductive redheads, public risk, and exhibitionist women, and he enjoys watching. His tastes run towards engaging, intelligent women with a mischievous sense of humor, and redheads.
You are to meet him in the lounge at the Tennessean at 9:00 sharp, wearing the dress he has provided for you. You’ll be paid your standard fee for your time. Anything extra you negotiate is your call.
The dress stunned me. It was a semiformal dress of excellent quality. Sexy, without tipping the scale towards slutty, it was strapless with a low back, but not so low that I couldn’t wear a bra. I still didn’t wear one. The satiny, luxurious material hung down to my calves, a long slit on the left, running up to the top of my thigh. It was cut to perfectly match my figure.
With a gleeful shriek, I ran upstairs to my writing room, which has a full-length mirror, and tried it on. My hair was far too coppery-orange for my liking, the ends looking like pale flames. However, the medium green of the dress matched it exquisitely. The image of me in the mirror was quite sultry, but the dress needed something. I snapped a few selfies to double-check.
Garter hose, I decided as I pulled off the dress. Thigh-high stockings, with an attached garter belt, would go perfectly with that dress. I chose sheer black ones with lace tops, the garter belt portion all stretchy lace. A pair of hardly-ever-worn, three-inch heels finished up the ensemble, nicely.
I turned away from the mirror and pulled on the stockings. As I was concentrating on that, I caught a passing glimpse of myself in the mirror, so quickly that the fact that it was my reflection didn’t immediately register. It wasn’t narcissism, but the instant, mental appraisal that got me going. My brain observed my reflection and thought, “She’s fucking hot; I wonder if she’s a model or something.”
After laughing at myself, I noted how my body was finally toned and lithe enough for me to be somewhat happy with it. My extreme sports workouts had toned my muscles, melting away most of my body fat. I had that vertical line running down my taut belly, feminine and sexy, just enough to wow. My boobs were still in the thirty-six range, but my more muscular chest made them jut out firm and high, my nipples pointing slightly upwards. What captivated me about my tits was that they ever so slightly spilled over the sides of my thinned body.
My newly coiffed hair, shimmering, liquid fire on my pale, freckled flesh, contrasted with the pink of my puffy nipples. I ran the silky tresses over my nipples, thinking about the instructions for my fantasy fulfillment evening. I was going to be a whore for the night, but not just any whore. I would be Katrina, the high-class, exhibitionist escort.
While I mused over that amazing dress and what was in store, my hands caressed my breasts with my sun-kissed tresses, stimulating my nipples and igniting already-heated flesh. Before I realized it, I had my head thrown back, moaning, one hand squeezing my tits, the other playing with my clit. I had to stop myself and finish dressing.
The way the garter hose highlighted my figure and accented the round curves of my hips was so sexy. I decided that I need to wear them more often. My ginger pubic hair was growing back, gray hairs be damned. It was a soft, downy tuft between my thighs, a perfect, inverted triangle of feathery wisps. I ran my hands over the softness covering my heated mound, debating on whether I wanted to shape it, but I ended up admiring how wantonly sexy my hips looked in the garter belt, the lace tops of the thigh highs looking so feminine and alluring. My ass, a plump, inverted heart, stuck out with enticing roundness and mouth-watering desire, all framed in black lace.
I couldn’t help myself. My hands traced the lace of the stockings, the thin lines connecting them to the garter. The thrill of the stretchy lace against my flesh caused a fire in my core. With my fingers slick from my wetness, I was on the verge of orgasm before I remembered that I had to go.
When I shrugged into that form-fitting, figure-enhancing dress once more, the effects of my hardcore exercising were evident. I didn’t look like a whore. I was a sexy siren, a Bond Girl. I’d been dressing so provocatively that I had forgotten how devastating sensual and classy can be. I was ready for the red carpet, a movie star on the prowl.
Of course, I had to test the “flash factor” in the mirror. How deeply could I bend before my ass pressed against the back of the dress or my now-ample tits spilled out of the bustier top? Could I take a step without flashing my cunt? I could. However, anything other than a casual, ladylike, baby step revealed the lace crowning my thigh highs. It was perfect, classy, and sensual, with just enough enticement to make me the target of lust.
I tested the flow of the dress, enjoying how it swayed with my movements and how amazingly well it fit me. I discovered that when seated, the back fell away to expose my legs, thigh, and stocking, the strap visible. My pussy could be seen with a few millimeters more spreading. My pale skin and red pubic hair were like a beacon when surrounded by all that black and emerald green. I tried a few poses to see which ones I could get away with in public, ending up with my fingers buried in my cunt.
I’d fingered myself to orgasm before I remembered that I had to go. I was so late. My husband, I mean my client, Mr. B., was going to kill me. Slipping into my heels, I ran out to my car and sped back into town.
I haven’t been to many posh, upscale hotels in my life. The Tennessean is both luxurious and affluent. A sweeping lobby with high ceilings dominated the front of the hotel, various uniformed staff milling about. A darkened restaurant was off to the side, a few boutiques and hotel shops lining the way. Brass, gleaming metal, and high-class modern minimalism were in abundance. The very attractive attendant saw me and smiled warmly.
“You just have to be Krystal,” she paused, blushed, and giggled. “I mean Katrina.”
Katrina? Oh, right. I smiled and nodded, trying not to look like an awed buffoon.
“Your husband, I mean Mr. B., is waiting for you in the Drawing Room,” she smiled. “A romantic fantasy night! How amazing! Here’s your key card.”
“Thank you.” I took the card. “That way?” I turned to go, turned back. “Wait! He told you?” She blushed and nodded. “Nope,” I lied. “Not embarrassed at all.”
“I’ll get your room ready, ma’am,” she retreated into professional mode, a conspiratorial smile on her lips.
By the time I reached the Drawing Room, the lounge and restaurant, the redness had mostly dissipated from my cheeks. My husband was easy to spot. He was seated at the bar, the sexy, little bartender leaning into him, her elbows on the bar top directly in front of him. She was thrusting her tits out to him, swaying her body back and forth, her ass sticking up, eyes locked on him. I’ve grown used to it. Women always react like that to him. Of course, in this instance, I couldn’t help but feel lusty solidarity. He looked so sexy, that I paused to admire him. My husband was pure, pussy-drenching eye candy.
He was wearing a tailored, button-down, oxford shirt in off-white. Those broad shoulders tapered down to his tiny waist, muscles rippling under the material. His long hair was styled back at the sides, with little shaggy wisps playing along his face at random intervals. A fashionable tie, matching the gray of his eyes, perfectly tied, hung from his neck. He moved with such casual, comfortable ease, his eyes alight with the magical fires of mirth and creation, that orgasm-inducing, roguish smile playing on his lips. His dark slacks were pleated, that monster package in his crotch swelling the front. He even wore formal shoes instead of his usual moccasins.
I felt suddenly overheated. The sight of him dressed as a businessman caused some of that, but I became aware of all the eyes upon me. A quick, mental self-appraisal alerted me to the fact that not only was I standing there, gawking like an idiot, but my nipples were rock hard and I had been slowly, subtly swaying my hips back and forth.
Extremely aware of the lusty male stares from the other patrons and the condescending, judgmental scoffs of the women, I basked in attention’s spotlight. I proudly strutted across the restaurant to the bar, my “model walk” putting me on full display. Each step crossing over the other leg to give my hips hard-on-inducing sway, back straight as a board to make my tits jut out, and slightly long steps to give my ass even more swell ensured that every pair of eyes was on me. I smiled with wicked carnality, brazenly meeting men’s eyes, showing the condemning, jealous women that Katrina the escort could fill an ocean with all the fucks she didn’t give about their condescension.
My newly toned body was the center of attention, wrapped in silken, emerald elegance. Bouncing tits, fiery orange hair, and black lace stocking tops were reflected in the windows in front of me. My husband, my “John” for the night, Mr. B., turned, his eyes meeting mine. As always, his eyes drank me in, appreciation and open lust showing within them. A conspiratorial wink was the only interruption of a perfectly-shared moment.
Without taking his eyes off me, he reached to the bar stool beside him and produced a bouquet of roses. I wanted to run to him, kiss him, and tell him how much I loved him, but resisted the urge and played my role. Instead, I acknowledged the flowers with a warm smile and swiveled onto the stool next to him. The action of swinging my legs around to position myself caused the high slit in the skirt to expose quite a bit of flesh and red pubic fuzz. Some lucky observer was so enthralled that silverware fell, rattling on fine china as they dropped it. The bartender stared at me, her mouth agape.
