“Where the fuck have you been?” she said.

“In there,” I pointed and crooked my wrist around to indicate the bathroom, which was right past the bar and right again. I noticed her untouched drink sitting on the bar. “Why the aggro Rachel? Someone piss in your martini?”

“Something like that,” Rachel snapped. “What took you so long?”

“Nature called and we had a long talk,” I explained. She rolled her eyes irritably at my corny metaphor. Rachel was already mad, so I pushed it further. “Do you want to know what we talked about? In detail?”

“Grgd, men are gross,” she growled. My wife pushed me back with one hand and scooted off her bar stool, “don’t bother sitting down, we’re out of here.”

“But the drinks,” I motioned forlornly at our two full glasses. She just shrugged and moved around me, toward the door. I didn’t see a receipt on the bar, and Rachel never carries cash, so I threw down a twenty and made to followed her. Trailing behind gave me a great view of her tight ass.

Rachel’s a good enough looking girl, maybe an office nine or an L.A. six. But her body is a smoking hot eleven anywhere, mostly because she manages her high strung type-A personality with exercise rather than with Zoloft. She’s sometimes cross and always fit. Her body is a temple where she worships Aikido and Yoga. So naturally the sight of Rachel speed walking out of the joint in her four inch fuck-me pumps, tight top, and tighter miniskirt momentarily arrested all my attention. I couldn’t resist ogling her toned legs and her tight little bubble butt as it swayed alluringly away from me.

“Hey,” I said, skipping to catch up to her. “Seriously now, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” she said. Then, “let’s just go home.”

“Christ, there goes date night.” I said, not wanting to end it like this. I could feel Rachel glaring at me while I studiously looked away, but she didn’t slow down to argue. I’d pay for my the snide comment later.

A man coming into the bar held the door for us as we existed. He got a dopey grin on his face as we went by. Who could blame him? Rachel’s breasts were bouncing around like two grapefruits under her semi-sheer white halter top. She had a nice pair of Cs but they looked like Ds hanging over her flat, hard belly. She doesn’t tend to wear bra’s either, which never failed to attract attention.

“What’s that daffy bastard’s problem?” she asked.

“Well, Daffy just got to see Blonde Katy Perry jogging toward him,” I said. I made a motion in front of me like I was holding to two balls, then seesawed my hands up and down for effect. I tried making the same goofy face the guy had and stuck out my tongue, dog-like. “Maybe he even saw the faint shadow of your nipples through that top. I tell you, I’d be a wreck if I were a jealous man, Rachel.”

“Pigs,” she said. She meant, men. In case I missed it, she added, “Gross. Pigs.”

“Not getting laid tonight, am I?” I said. Rachel roller her eyes at me again. “Look, something crawled up your ass, why take it out on me?”

“You’re making it worse.”

“You expect me to roll over?” I shrugged. “I like to deserve the trouble I’m in.”

The ride home didn’t improve Rachel’s mood any. I kept quiet, hoping my personal blonde storm would pass over. It didn’t. She bounced around our apartment cleaning and picking up, scowling the whole time. Like me, she cleans when she wants control. She tends to clean more than I do.

I poured us each a scotch, which helped me but didn’t seem to slow Rachel down at all. At least I had a nice buzz when we finally crawled into bed. To my surprise, Rachel pushed against me to spoon, and let out a long sigh. I grew hard immediately, my cock snaking pleasantly down the crease between her thighs. I pulled her against me, increasing the arousing tension of my cock against her thighs.

“Oink. oink,” I said softly. “I got the impression you didn’t like men.”

“One exception.” Rachel bit my hand, lightly and kissed it. She rolled over onto her belly pulling my arm lazily with her. Turning to look at me, she spread her legs under the covers. “Come on. I want the other white meat.”

I chuckled but I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I like watching Rachel’s behind, but I love fucking her from behind. It’s not something she wants to do particularly often, being more of a face to face love maker. I shifted under the covers to get over her, my cock wedged against her pussy down the crack of her ass. I humped her a bit, just for the pleasant sensation it gave. She groaned and pushed back against me.

“Come on inside.”

I hesitated, not wanting to hurt her. Usually, I go down on her first, or she gets me wet with her mouth so it doesn’t hurt her.

“Just do it,” she said. “I’m ready.”

I grabbed my cock to guide it into her. Her pussy was like an overripe peach, soft and a bit fuzzy on the outside, slick and juicy on the inside. I took the first few thrusts slow so her juices could run out onto her labia and my shaft. The tight stretching discomfort of pushing my cock in felt great.

“Harder.”

Rachel’s kinda alpha but she doesn’t usually talk like that, or at all, during sex. I adjusted my pace to long, hard thrusts, lingering at the end to enjoy the pressure it caused from the head of my shaft to the base and a bit beyond.

“Faster,” she complained. “Fuck me.”

Wow. Dirty talk. Well, dirty for Rachel, anyway. Another rarity. I complied, still lingering at the end but thrusting harder and faster than before. What happened next changed our lives forever.

“Oh, yeah. That’s… Oh, fuck... Fuck. Fuck me.” Rachel had an orgasm. At least that’s what it looked like to me. She came. The shock of it froze me in place, but it didn’t stop her from coming more. “Don’t stop, goddammit. Fuck me!”

I did, harder than before, almost in a panic. This never happened. Ever. Rachel never came during sex. Not with me. And not with anybody before, she’d claimed when we started dating. She never faked it either. There was no reason to start faking now, so this had to be the real deal.

Real and intense, judging by the tea kettle hisses and feline whining coming out the front of her. I had no idea what to do so I just fucked my wife’s pelvis into the mattress and thought about baseball. I didn’t want to finish before she did. Rachel rocked her pelvis back and forth, gripping me and fucking me back, making it very hard not to shoot off.

“If something doesn’t change soon I’m going to fill you full of cum,” I said.

Rachel grabbed the headboard and lifted herself up onto her knees. The move pushed me back, interrupting my rhythm, staving off my orgasm.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” she commanded. With one arm supporting her weight she used the other to push back against me. Hard. I had to grab her hips to hold on. Did I mention she was strong?

“Okay, you asked for it.” We almost never did doggie so I gripped her hip bone, pushed my thumbs into her gorgeous sacral dimples, and thrust into her hard enough our thighs made a smacking sound. She wasn’t hating it. Her pussy gripped my cock like a pair of slick hands. She arched her back as far as she could and used the headboard to lever back into me. I started pounding her. Her fist or the headboard, I couldn’t be sure which, hit the wall over and over. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Gonna come soon,” I said. I couldn’t hold out any longer. And I didn’t want to ruin it.

“Come in me. Come!”

“Ah, ah…,” you get the idea. We both grunted and screamed our release. My cock twiched and jerked inside her spraying out all my lust while her pussy clutched and pulled it all out of me. I thrust some more for a minute after we came just for the thrill of it.

“God,” I finally collapsed beside Rachel. She fell down half on top of me, so her head was under my chin.

“Mmm.” she nuzzled me.

Rachel just lay there on top of me, sighing contentedly every so often. I didn’t have the breath to talk, but my mind raced. She’d never come with me before. Only a water jet would do it. And only if she humped it. Shower heads didn’t do it. We’d tried a number of toys but none worked. I got the impression she worked out religiously partly to get relief she couldn’t get in bed.

“Wow, um. Was that an Oscar worthy bit of acting or did that just happen?”

“Happened.”

“First time?” I had to know. “I mean, have I been sucking this whole time and suddenly…”.

“First time. I’ve never lied to you about that,” she said. To lighten the mood, and bolster my ego, I think, she added, “and I like how you suck.”

“That was amazing.”

“Amazing?” she said with a low laugh. “Honey, that was by far the best fuck of me life. Nothing else compares.”

“Wow, nothing?”

She didn’t answer, instead Rachel started shaking, like she was laughing silently. I felt wetness on my chest and she sniffed. My wife never cried, either. I hugged her and rocked her.

“Is that what it’s like with other girls?” I guess she had insecurities too. How could she not?

“Raw and rough, sometimes, yeah. But not that intense, no,” I said. Rachel and I made love with careful attention to detail and each other. I always wanted her to have the best time she could, so I spent a lot of time on foreplay, oral sex, and after play. We almost never had raw sex. She liked giving me quickie blowjobs when she wasn’t up for all the effort of sex. “Also, woohoo! No one’s ever told me I was the fuck of their life.”

She laughed wetly and sniffed. I liked making her smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m so glad it happened with you.”

My mouth closed and refused to open. A lump rose in my throat. I hugged her closer communicating feelings I couldn’t express verbally. Tears stung my eyes.

Rachel moved up to kiss me. I tasted tears on her lips and kissed back, intimately, cautiously exploring her with my tongue. She welcomed me and kissed back. Rachel moved the rest of the way up to straddled me. She grabbed my cock and sat back onto it. I hadn’t even realized I was hard again.

We made slow delicious love. Love like we usually do, intimate and wonderful. Like usual, she didn’t come but that was alright. Baby steps, or lightning in a bottle, or whatever.

Rachel always claimed she enjoyed sex, and I believed her. We made love sweetly and often from the start. And she seemed more relaxed afterward. We were certainly always closer, after than before. But that night I’d seen her actually enjoying herself, carelessly glorious. I wanted her to have that again.

So did she. We tried to make lightning strike twice the next night. Not even a spark. It didn’t strike the next night or one after that or for the next week. We tried everything, every position.We even watched porn, her idea. Nothing worked.

We talked about it, too. I asked her about her state of mind, she’d been mad and worried and she was a bit drunk. Maybe that was it, we agreed. So we drank scotch and watched an hour of the RNC convention, plenty of anger and worry from that. Then we fucked.

Nothing.

“The DNC has theirs next week. We can try again.”

We waited.

“Kaine?” she said the next week, downing an entire shot of scotch. “Who the fuck is that guy?”

“He’s a senator who’s not up for election from a southern swing state with a Democratic governor.” I said, pedantically, just so she’d be pissed at me, as well as with politics. I could see Rachel consider tackling me.

We fucked instead of wrestling, which is good because I always lose. She’s a double black belt or whatever they call it in Aikido.

No joy.

I drilled her more. What had she done that day. It was routine. What had she been mad about at the bar? Was it something I did? It was nothing unusual, she said, just some guy hitting on her.

Like I said, it’s not healthy to be the jealous type with a woman like Rachel. She usually didn’t get pissed when men make passes at her, it happened too frequently. So I pressed for details, why the anger?

“The jerk was polite about it. Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she said. I had my doubts about that.

“Look, let it go,” she said finally. “Maybe it will happen, maybe not, but it’s starting to stress me out. It’s been a fun adventure trying, but let’s not kill ourselves looking for El Dorado when we’re already golden.”

She pressed my arm affectionately and looked into my eyes. “I’m super glad it happened with you and not those bozos before you.”

I nodded and kissed her and reminded myself how lucky I was. She led me into the bedroom and we made sweet passionate love. It was fine and she went to sleep assured I’d let it go.

That’s a lie. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Okay? If Rachel had a ‘on’ button I had to find it.

As an experiment, I recreated a date just like that night’s date, without telling Rachel, of course. Everything was the same except the calendar date and her outfit, this time she wore strappy stiletto sandals and a little black strappy dress to match, sans bra, as usual.

Of course it wouldn’t stay secret, Rachel isn’t dumb. I wanted it to be natural and organic for her as long as I could make it. At the same hotel bar, I took off for the bathroom and stayed in there a good time longer than I needed. I got back in time to see the bartender taking away her empty glass. The droll look Rachel gave me as she picked up her fresh martini told me all I needed to know.

“I’m supposed to ask you where the fuck you’ve been, right? I don’t think nature called this time.” She took a sip without taking her eyes off mine. “Good plan, but It didn’t work.”

“I think I’m gonna cry,” I said, sitting down. I took a sip of my margarita. “Nothing’s worked.”

“I love you, honey.” She scooted over to kissed me on the cheek, then nearly fell off her bar stool trying to get back on it. “Woops.”

“I guess, I’m driving.”

“Good idea!”

“You’re not mad?” There was always hope she would be. Something got her mad that night and something pushed her ‘on’ button and I couldn’t let go of the idea the two facts were related.

“Nah,” she said. She took another sip. “But, I will be in the morning!”

“How many is that?”

“Lucky number four.”

“Great.” She must have pounded them. “Maybe we should go.”

“You got every detail right. The restaurant, the food, this bar, and…” she laughed, waving her arm in the general direction of the bathrooms. “What did you do in there for twenty minutes?”

“Email.”

“So sad,” she pouted. I had the sudden image of my cock against her puckered glossy lips.

“You’re not making me feel better.”

“Well, you didn’t let it go.”

“I’m really sorry. I wanted to find that button.”

“Button?”

“Your ‘on’ button.”

“You think...” she snapped. My angry blonde storm was back. “You think I’m switched off?”

“Well shit,” I put my face in my hands. “It doesn’t sound good when you say it like that.”

“Ya, think!” she said. She got up, smoothly this time, and made for the door. “Pay the tab.”

“Wait,” I didn’t bother adding up the bill, I just threw bills on the bar and booked it. Things followed almost identically to that first special night, except I’d earned her wrath this time around. At home I poured myself a scotch and waited for hurricane Rachel to hit me. It never came, just like Rachel. We got into bed and she snuggled up against me just like before.

I got hard instantly but Rachel didn’t roll over and pull me on her. She didn’t ask me to ‘fuck’ her. Instead her shook, crying silently. We’d skipped over the fun and gone straight for the sad. I held her and kept my stupid mouth shut.

“I caught on to what you were doing as soon as we got to the restaurant. Part of me hoped it would work, but it’s not the same,” she said, after calming down. “I’m so sorry.”

“Please. Please don’t be sorry,” I said. I crushed her to me. “I’m an idiot, I’ll let it go.”

“You tried,” she said. “I know why and it’s sweet. I am switched off. I’m broken.”

“You’re perfect. I just want you to have the same fun I do.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

We lay there, feeling miserable until I kissed her ear. She scootched around for a proper kiss, the kind that leads to love making. We started with me on top then she put me in her mouth and got me hard so she could climb on me for a second go.

Afterward, we lay together. I felt sad, calm and content.

“I won’t try anymore, I promise.”

“You really worked at it,” she said. “I appreciate the effort.”

“Mhm.”

Time passed, I might have fallen asleep. I remember the rest of the night like a dream.

“Hon?”

“Hmm”, I was so close to sleep.

“You missed a detail.”

“Hmm?”

“The guy,”

“At the door?” That would have been hard to recreate.

“The one that pissed me off,” she whispered.

“Mhm.”

“He didn’t.”

“Hrm?”

“I mean, he made me mad. But he didn’t make a pass, exactly.”

“Uhum?”

“He propositioned me.”

“Mhm.”

“Hon?”

“Hmm.”

“You awake?”

“Hmhm.”

“He thought I was working the bar.”

She kept talking, I think, but I don’t remember it. The next morning I got to deal with a very hung over Rachel. Not a pleasant time. Not terrible either.

We ordered pizza for lunch and stayed in. I forgot all about what she’d said before I passed out until that night in bed.

“Did I hear you right last night?” We were spooning, her headache had vanished. I felt her nod.

“He asked me what my rate was.”

“Oh. I hope you said like a thousand or something.”

“Asshole.” She hit me with a feather light elbow jab. “I asked him what for. Felt really blonde then.”

“No one’s asked you that before?”

“No! Asshole!” her elbow jabbed a bit harder that time.

“Made you furious?”

“More shocked, really. But then… Yeah. I thought about breaking his arm or throwing him over the bar.”

“Bailing you out of jail sounds less fun than what we did after, so thanks for holding back.”

For response she snuggled in closer to me, making me feel big and strong.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked. I had my suspicions. And since she’d only brought it up after drunken makeup sex, I thought maybe she knew for sure.

She shrugged, still unwilling to go their, apparently. Or maybe I was overthinking it.

“Maybe I should offer to pay.” I said, after some contemplation. “Like role playing or something.”

“I don’t think that was it.”

“I’d pay money if it did the trick.”

“Hardy-har-har,” she said. “You know, I’d take the money. From you.”

I spang up. Went to my pants, pulled out my cash, and hopped back into bed.

“What’s your rate?” I said.

“A thousand, obviously.” She didn’t yell or hit me, a good sign.

“I got... forty… three. Looks like.”

“How cheap do you think I am?” she said. I could hear the smile in her bright voice.

“Um, did that trigger anything?” Maybe trigger wasn’t the right word, but ‘did it push you button’ wasn’t something I was stupid enough to ask.

“Not for that little,” she laughed. Then she added more evenly, “nothing changed. I’m in a better mood though.”

We didn’t bring it up again and our lives went back to normal. A couple of months later we found ourselves in another hotel bar after an office party. I’d had a few beers and needed to piss. There was a line, just me and this dumpy looking guy. We struck up one of those anonymous conversations. Halfway through his description of a bad plane ride out of London, an idea struck me.

“Hey, bud, you wanna do me a favor?” I asked. He was game once I explained it as a practical joke on a friend. I even had the line, ‘Ask her if five hundred is enough.’

If he offered a thousand or forty-three, the gig would be up. Rachel would probably guess it was my game anyway, but I didn’t need to make it easy.

“Let’s get a room,” she said when I got to the bar. She didn’t look pissed off, had the guy chickened out? “I’m tired and we’re both too drunk to drive.”

There was room at the hotel for stupid money but worth it, because when we got in the room Rachel pulled me onto the bed and ripped my shirt off, no exaggeration. Buttons flew.

“That’s going to be awkward in the morning,” I said.

“Shut up and fuck me.” She ripped her dress and panties off more carefully than my shirt but didn’t bother with her heels.

Once I’d taken enough off, Rachel proceeded to fuck my brains out, for like an hour. Best of all, she came. I don’t know how many times. Maybe she came the whole time. Her intense urgency scared me a bit but turned me on, too. Two times she managed to get me hard again with some enthusiastic oral sex, meaning she sat on my face and did her best to jam my cock down her throat, something she excelled at and loved to do anyway.

By the end we were laying spread eagle on the bed panting with cum, pillows, and sheets everywhere. She wore that same goofy-smug smile again.

“Wow,” she laughed. “I never even took off my heels. Who fucks in bed with their heels still on?”

“Pornstars and whores,” I blurted. I sucked in my breath waiting for her explosion.

Rachel laughed, “Could you get me a warm washcloth and a towel? Your whore needs a rub down.”

I hadn’t expected that language from Rachel, especially directed at herself. It made me think, maybe she knew what I’d done. I desperately wanted to know for sure, but I wasn’t bringing it up directly.

“What got into you?” I asked, trying to segue into it.

“I don’t know,” she said with a casual shrug. “Just suddenly wanted you badly.”

Either that guy didn’t ask her or she was lying to me. Given her behavior, it was the latter. She didn’t want to talk about it, I guess. Maybe out of embarrassment. I didn’t push her, so we couldn’t talk about how being propositioned turned her on, or why. I could Google it, however. I decided Rachel didn’t have a button. She wasn’t switched off. She just had different foreplay than anyone else. A fetish.

My mind turned to more pragmatic issues. I wondered how many times I could get someone to do that, and how often before she caught on. Would she even admit she’d caught on? I decided not to worry about it. As long as she got to enjoy sex some of the time as much as I did every time, I’d keep trying.

We started having more dates near hotel bars and I got chatty with people in and around bathrooms. It went over as good as you’d expect most of the time. But every so often I’d get lucky and find an agreeable fellow. Each time I got lucky, so did Rachel. Without fail, she’d drag me home, or up to a hotel room, and fuck me until she dropped down from exhaustion, always with that goofy-smug grin on her face.

Her fetish wasn’t the easiest to deal with, but with practice it became simple enough. Things didn’t stay simple, though. The effects of her fetish seem to be diminish over time. Each time it was fun, but not quite as good as the last time. The effects kept diminishing, until finally her switch stopped working altogether.

“It didn’t work,” she said, as I came back to the bar conveniently late on night.

“What’s that?” I asked all innocent. It sounded like the jig was up, she knew. I took a seat next to her, acting cheering but feeling guilty and sad.

Rachel favored me soberly with one of her droll looks, “Don’t be coy.”

“So… how long have you known?” I asked.

“All along,” she said.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to jinx it,” I said. She nodded and swilled her ice around. “Well fuck.”

“Not feeling like it,” she said, smiling. At least she could crack a joke. “I did some research on this sort of thing. Fetishes,I mean,” she said.

“Fetish?” I asked. Yeah, like I hadn’t done research myself.

“A fetish is when you need some object or environment or condition to get off,” she said. I nodded as she stared down at her glass like it was a tv. “There doesn’t seem to be any consensus on what causes it and there’s a wide range of behaviors labeled as a fetish.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people have normal sex lives but there’s this one thing that really turns them on. Like special clothing, doing it in public, leather, you know...”

“Lucky bastards,” I said. She wasn’t that type of fetish.

“Yeah, that’s not me, and I don’t think those are really fetishes. There are people like me though,” she said. “People who can’t seem to get off without some specific ‘thing’.

“Maybe there’s a group for it,” I offered.

“Yeah, right,” she said. Rachel wasn’t the group therapy type and we both knew it. “A popular theory is something really powerfully sexual happens in adolescence that gets associated with a particular stimulus, or object, or whatever.”

“Like high heels, or nylons,” I offered.

“Yeah,” Rachel eyed my sideways, “you saying I should wear nylons more?”

“You’re my fetish, babe,” I said. She stuck out her tongue. “So how did you get that association?”

“No idea,” she threw up a hand in exasperation.

“How many drinks will you need to admit you know exactly what it is,” I said. Rachel glared at me in anger before turning to face away from me. Her face was bright red. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“It’s kind of icky.”

“You want to talk about it at home?”

“No,” she motioned to the bartender for another martini. “It’s Dad’s fault.”

The man was an uptight, religious prude. Neither of us particularly liked him. Her mother attended church weekly and walked around with a stick up her ass, too. But her mother wasn’t a raging dick. Rachel inherited their uptight nature but not their misery, superstitions, or priggish puritanism.

“Oh, shit. Did he…?”

“No, no,” she waved a hand. “Dad’s fucked up but he’s not a monster. No, it was the divorce.”

“Huh?”

“Mom left Dad,” she said. I knew that already. “I guess he felt betrayed and hurt. He smeared Mom in front of me every time he could for quite a while afterward.”

“So, what…?”

“Dad didn’t just call Mom names like a normal angry ex-husband. He fed me detailed stories about Mom, where he insinuated her infidelity and worse. He told stories about her reputation around town and how everyone knew she’d do it, but only for money.”

My mouth dropped open.

“I know, right?” she said. “I never believed him, not completely. He knew I knew they found Jesus a few months before I was born. Right when they tied the knot. The inference he wanted me to make was that he’d paid to conceive me.”

“Oh,” I said. “What a dick!”

“I’m over it,” she said.

“Apparently not,” I said, waving at the whole place we were in. “I mean, if the theory is right.”

“That’s the thing. There really isn’t any one thing or experience. I was sixteen at the time and a late bloomer. I’d just finished growing these,” she lifted her breasts up, unselfconsciously. I noticed the bartender checking her out. “I got my first boyfriend around then, Randal Pendergrass. Good church boy and popular. Mom was so pleased with me, she let me use her car to go on dates with him. If she only knew!”

“You banged?”

“He never touched me, but he wanted me to touch him. Everywhere. We kissed and made out a lot. I always made sure he had a good time, usually right into my mouth.”

Rachel looked sheepish.

“That explains a lot,” I said, smiling. Rachel gave head enthusiastically and often.

“More than you know,” she said. “I did the math. I made the connection Dad wanted me to make. If he wasn’t lying, then I was a whore’s bastard spawn. I’d think about it sometimes... with Randal.”

“So when that guy at the bar asked you…”

“I brushed him off. It was funny, actually. Until I realized how turned on I was by it. That made me furious, mostly at Dad.”

We both sat pondering that for a bit. I put my arm around her as much as I could at a bar.

“Any idea why it doesn’t work anymore?” I asked. There was a minuscule pause before she shook her head. I wanted to prod for more, but resisted. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she felt shame. I’d pried enough, though.

“So what now?”

“Now, we go home,” she said. “You’ve worked hard to make me happy, I think you deserve a reward.”

“Selfless, I am. Completely altruistic.”

“Ha!” Rachel stood and kissed me on the cheek. Then whispered in my ear, “come on, maybe I have a fetish for taking your cock up my ass.”

There is no good reason I didn’t get a ticket driving home from the bar. We’d never tried anal, although I always wanted to. I mean, her tight little ass, and those dimples…. Hrunghh.

Afterward, we lay on our bed panting, this time I had the dopey-smug smile. Rachel hadn’t climaxed, though.

“Thank you,” I said. “I mean, I never thought you’d...”

“You’re welcome. And I liked it,” she said. “Not as much as regular sex, but nice. And we know I only have one fetish.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I bet you are,” she said. “Admit it, you’ve wanted my ass for a while now.”

“For a while?” I said. “More like forever.”

‘Well, you’re not the first to want to,” she said. “Don’t worry. If you’re super nice to me, I might want to do it again.”

“What do I have to do?” I asked. She jabbed me with an elbow, so I switched topics. “You know, I like how you talk more openly now. And dirty.”

“Like a whore?” she said.

“What? No, like adults,” I said. “Your parents really fucked you up.”

“Yeah, well, now we both know just how much.” She meant her fetish. Or her former fetish.

“You sure you don’t know what...” I started.

“I have no idea, honey.”

“I’d give anything if it worked again.”

“Isn’t this enough?” she asked. I could tell I’d hurt her. She wasn’t able to climax anymore and I wasn’t able to stop obsessing about it. That’s a gut punch to the ego, for both of us.

“I’m an ass,” I said. This is the kind of thing marriages break up on. I hugged her to me. “You’re exactly who I want. I love you, even when you’re unreasonably mad at me, even if you don’t climax with me ever again. It sucks for you, is all.”

“We can try again,” she said, finally. “Maybe it’ll work. But give it a while, like a year, and surprise me. I don’t want to go around wondering when some guy is going to offer me money for sex.”

That was the end of it, for a while.

One night about six months later, Rachel and I went to dine at Le Colonial. We’d arrived well before our reservation to get drinks at their great bar. I let Rachel get us a bar table while I visited the bathroom. I really did need to pee.

Unexpectedly this Australian guy struck up a conversation with my reflection at the wash area. He’d been in the States for a month and missed his missus quite a bit. To my shock he segued that information into a question about local brothels.

I didn’t know what he meant, I said to his reflection. Honestly I didn’t. He spelled out what he was looking for, hoping I would know. I made like a scandalized Mormon. Mr Aussie justified it by saying it was legal back home and his wife ‘understood’. I bet. What an ass.

On the other hand, what an opportunity.

“Ah,” I said, like it was all okay. I looked directly at him, instead of at his reflection. “I don’t know about brothels, but I have a ...um... work friend who says this place right here is a spot for that type of girl. High class types, to match the decor, you know. It’s not a brothel or anything. He told me they hang around the bar.”

“Right, thanks mate.”

“Have a good time.”

I couldn’t have described Rachel to him, given the story I’d fed him. There would likely be several single women in the bar area, which meant my philandering Aussie would need time. So I stayed in the wash area for a bit, getting through some email on my phone while keeping one eye on the clock.

I imagined him asking woman after woman, in that forthright Aussie manner. I kinda felt sorry for the women. Or maybe Mr Aussie would get slapped and come back and punch my lights out. I’d deserve it.

When enough time passed I went out to see if he’d pushed Rachel’s button. She wasn’t in the bar area. I checked the main restaurant, too. No wife. So I sat down at an empty bar table with my back to the wall and ordered our drinks when the waitress walked by.

Rachel had probably gone to the bathroom. I didn’t see the would be Aussie John. Maybe Mr Aussie missed her altogether. Or maybe he’d absconded with an actual hooker.

“Good luck mate,” I said to no one.

I got though a lot more mail, and ordered another drink after downing the first. Twenty minutes passed. I tried not to get worried, but that’s a long time in the loo. Maybe she was sick, or it was that time of month and she needed to clean up. I thought about going to see if she needed help until I remembered my phone was good for more than email and games.

I gave her five minutes then I called. It rang until voicemail picked up and I heard Rachel’s calm voice telling me to leave a message. Now I was worried. I called three more times over the next five or ten minutes. The calls went straight to v-mail. Rachel’s phone was dead or she was canceling my calls. A terrible thought hit me.

“Shit,” I whispered. I’m not the jealous type, but I could add. Rachel’s fetish, plus the Aussie’s mission, equals... “fuck.”

I flagged down the cocktail waitress and asked her for a favor. She came back three minutes later, no women were in the bathroom. No, there weren’t any bathrooms on this floor. I tipped her a twenty to check the restaurant bathroom.

No joy.

The waitress kindly brought me a complimentary drink, like she thought I’d been dumped or something. ‘Something’ left too many options open, but in my gut I knew there was only one possibility. Rachel wouldn’t dump me, she wasn’t a practical joker, and this wasn’t the type of place kidnappers frequented. Rachel was in a nearby hotel room. Mr Aussie was, too. Fuck.

I hope she got paid enough.

I wanted to cry but nausea prevented it. I downed my drink and asked for another, not caring if I puked. If she’d really gone somewhere with that, then it was my fault as much as hers. What was I thinking, sending some who really wanted a hooker to her. And he wasn’t a bad looking fellow either. I usually chose unassuming dumpier guys, I realized now. Probably subconsciously. I sat there miserable, angry and myself, angry at Rachel, and worried she might not be okay.

Around nine thirty I finally caught sight of Rachel’s unmistakable sexy silhouette coming down the green carpeted stairs from the entrance above. I felt such a strong sense of relief I nearly pissed myself. At least I knew she was okay.

Rachel walked toward the bar, and me, with the languid gait of someone with a really good buzz. When she spotted me, my wife favored me with a goofy-smug smile which could only mean one thing. My heart stopped and my mouth dried out. As Rachel continued to float gracefully toward me, I noticed other details besides her gait and smile. Her hair looked tousled, her nylons were AWOL, and her dress needed ironing.

My wife had that fucked well look, and damn if she didn’t look hot.

She sat down next to me, her smile less goofy now but still smug. As she put her purse down on the table, a flash of red drew my eyes down away from her beautiful face to the purse. Rachel’s red lace thong was mashed haphazardly on top of all the other stuff in her purse, partially obscuring a thin stack of what looked like crisp hundred dollar bills.

My mouth gaped open. I looked back up, meeting eyes with my wife. Her makeup was different, like she’d washed it off then reapplied only her lipstick and eyeliner.

Rachel didn’t seem concerned at all with what must have been my obvious agitation. Slowly she reclined, taking a sip of her warm martini. She made a face at the taste, which broke the spell holding my tongue still.

“Where the fuck have you been,” I said.