Chapter 150: Pretty Woman
The lift doors slid shut, sealing Margot in a silent, gilded tomb. Her body hummed. A deep, pleasant ache radiated from her core, a blunt reminder of the thorough use she’d just received. Between her thighs, a slow, warm trickle escaped, seeping into the silk of her knickers, a secret she carried through the polished lobby. She walked carefully, aware of the faint, sticky sensation with every step.
She was almost to the grand revolving doors, the afternoon light beckoning, when a voice cut through the lobby’s hushed atmosphere.
“Madam? A moment, if you please.”
She turned. It was the concierge who had directed her earlier. Up close, he was younger than she’d first thought, perhaps late thirties, with sharp, observant eyes and an impeccably trimmed beard. His name tag read ‘Alain’.
“Yes?”
He kept his voice low, professional, his smile a practised curve. “I hope your… meeting was satisfactory.” His eyes flickered, ever so briefly, to the black weekend case in her hand—the same case she’d arrived with, now containing the soiled red chemise. “The gentleman in Suite 407 is a valued guest. Discretion is, of course, our paramount concern.”
Margot felt a flush rise on her neck, not of shame, but of a sudden, electric understanding. He thought she was a prostitute. A high-end one, but a prostitute nonetheless. The garment bag, the case, the purposeful arrival, the flushed departure—the narrative was obvious.
She should have been offended. Instead, a reckless thrill shot through her. She leaned in slightly, mirroring his confidential tone. “It was very satisfactory, thank you. He’s… remarkably vigorous for his age.”
Alain’s professional mask didn’t slip, but a new light kindled in his eyes. Curiosity. “I’m pleased to hear it. We aim to cater to all our guests’ needs.” He paused, choosing his words with surgical precision. “Some of our more… discerning guests occasionally seek companionship. A temporary solace from loneliness. The reliable availability of such companionship, however, can be a challenge.”
He let the sentence hang. An offer floated in the air, unspoken but clear.
Margot smiled, the mischievous glint in her eye fully ignited. “Oh, I’m not a professional, Alain. At least, not in the way you mean.” She glanced around, ensuring no one was in earshot. “I’m a married woman. This,” she gestured vaguely back towards the lifts, “is a gift. For my husband.”
Alain’s eyebrows lifted a millimetre. “A gift?”
“A cuckolding,” she said, the crude word delicious in the opulent setting. “He’s at home, chaste and locked away, while I’m out being a slut for his entertainment. And my own.” She watched him process this, saw the flicker of surprise, then a slow, complicit grin. “The anonymity is part of the fun. My husband will never know if the man serving him coffee, or sharing his elevator, is the one who just fucked his wife bareback.”
Alain chuckled, a soft, genuine sound. “I see. An intriguing dynamic.” He reached into the breast pocket of his immaculate jacket and produced a business card. It was plain, cream linen, with only an engraved phone number. “Discretion, as I said, is our concern. But so is catering to unique… tastes. Should your marital… projects… require a venue, I am occasionally made aware of gentlemen who appreciate a certain caliber of experience. And who value absolute privacy.”
Margot took the card. The paper felt thick, expensive. A key to a secret city. “You’re suggesting I could be on call. For your guests.”
“A mutually beneficial arrangement,” he said smoothly. “You would have access to our facilities. They would have access to a… vibrant, enthusiastic companion. Your husband’s humiliation, as you put it, would be compounded by never knowing the location or the identity. The mystery would be… perpetual.”
Her mind raced. The luxury, the variety, the sheer audacity of it. Fucking strangers in five-star suites, arranged by a discreet concierge while Rupert sat at home in his plastic cage, knowing nothing. The mindfuck would be exquisite.
“I’m interested,” she said, slipping the card into her purse. “Very.”
“Simply let me know when you are… accepting appointments,” Alain said, giving a slight, formal nod. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Madam.”
The train home was a jarring transition. The plush silence of the hotel was replaced by the rumble of engines, the smell of stale coffee and damp coats. Margot found a seat by the window, the slow leak of May’s spend inside her a constant, filthy anchor to the afternoon. She took out her phone. Rupert’s messages flooded the screen.
The picture… Jesus, Margot.
Is that… inside you?
Are you on the train?
Please answer.
I can’t stop looking at it.
She typed back, her movements languid, satisfied.
On the 4:22. Still wet. Silk knickers are ruined. You can smell him on me when I get home.
She sent it, then took a covert photo under the table of her splayed thighs, the dark fabric of her trousers, a subtle damp patch just visible. She sent that too.
The response was immediate. A single word.
Hurry.
The house was quiet when she let herself in. The only light came from the living room. She dropped her bags in the hall and walked through. Rupert was on the sofa, still in his work clothes, his phone gripped in his hand. The blue leather hood was on the cushion beside him. He looked utterly wrecked, his eyes red-rimmed, his body tense.
He stared at her as if she were a ghost. A ghost who’d been fucked senseless.
“Well?” he breathed.
Margot didn’t answer with words. She walked to the centre of the room, locked her eyes with his, and slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned her trousers. She pushed them down, along with her ruined silk knickers, and stepped out of them. She stood before him, naked from the waist down, the firelight dancing on the pale skin of her thighs, glinting off the gold ring.
The evidence was stark. A slick, gleaming trail led from the swollen lips of her pussy down her inner thigh.
“Come here,” she said, her voice low.
He moved like a sleepwalker. He knelt before her on the rug, his hands hovering, afraid to touch.
“Smell,” she commanded.
He leaned forward, his nose almost touching her skin. He inhaled deeply, a shudder running through his entire body. A choked sound escaped him.
“Taste,” she whispered.
He needed no further urging. His mouth found her with a desperate hunger. His tongue plunged inside her, licking, lapping, seeking the foreign seed that had planted itself in his wife. He groaned, a deep, broken sound of abject worship and torment. His hands gripped her arse, pulling her closer, his tongue fucking her as May’s cock had, trying to claim what was already taken.
Margot threw her head back, a gasp escaping her. The sensation was overwhelming—the raw, shameless adoration, the humiliation of it, the second-hand pleasure. She tangled her hands in his hair, guiding his face deeper. “That’s it,” she moaned. “Clean your wife, Slave Blue. Lap it all up. Every last drop of him.”
He obeyed, feverish, desperate. His tongue circled her clit, making the little bell chime with a frantic, tiny sound. The ting-ting-ting seemed to drive him wilder. He sucked on the pierced hood, his own hips rocking involuntarily against the constricting plastic of his cage.
When she finally pushed his head away, his face was wet, glistening with her and the stranger’s spend. He looked up at her, panting, utterly debased.
“Stand up,” she said.
He did. She reached for the blue leather hood on the sofa. She pulled it over his head, adjusting the eye-holes, her fingers gentle on his sandy hair. He was now anonymous. A slave. Her slave.
“Hands on the back of the sofa. Bend over.”
He assumed the position, his body trembling with anticipation and denial. Margot ran her hands over the curve of his arse, then roughly pulled his trousers and underwear down to his knees. She spat into her palm, slicking her fingers, then pressed them against his tight, clenching hole.
He jerked, a muffled sound coming from under the hood.
“Relax,” she purred, working a finger inside him, slowly, cruelly. “This is all you get tonight. This, and the taste of an old man’s cock on your tongue.”
She fucked him with her fingers, shallowly at first, then deeper, scissoring them, preparing him. His breaths came in ragged, wet sobs behind the leather. She added a second finger, stretching him. He was tight, unresisting. A virgin here, too.
“You like that, don’t you?” she hissed, curling her fingers, searching. “Being opened up. Knowing your wife is stretched wide open by other men while you get this.”
He found his voice, a strangled plea. “Please… Margot…”
“Please what?”
“I… I need…”
“You need to come?” She withdrew her fingers suddenly. “You can’t. You’re locked. You’re mine.”