My Wife's Making Money

It started innocently enough. No grand scheme, no late-night fantasy spun out of pure lust, just the quiet grind of bills that never seemed to stop coming. We had moved down to the Florida coast eighteen months earlier chasing cheaper living and warmer winters. What we found instead was a stack of medical statements from my ulcer scare, lingering credit cards from the move, and the kind of everyday expenses that turned a decent paycheck into something that vanished before the next one arrived. I told myself a part-time gig would fix it. Security work during spring break paid cash under the table and paid well if you were willing to babysit half-drunk college kids until three in the morning.

The motel was the seedy one on the strip, the kind with peeling paint and a parking lot that smelled like spilled beer and coconut sunscreen by noon. Seventy percent guys, thirty percent girls, and the boys howled at the moon every night because there simply were not enough willing holes to go around. After the third night of sending them toward the nearest strip club, I started asking questions. What do you want? How much will you pay? Their standards had bottomed out. Any warm body would do. A wet mouth. A tight cunt. They would close their eyes and pretend it was the coed who turned them down at the pool.

I printed a few photos from our home computer. Soft blonde curls, full tits that strained every bikini top she owned, the kind of body that still turned heads at thirty-eight. My wife. Cindy. I showed the pictures the next night and watched their eyes glaze. Offers started at twenty for a blowjob and climbed past a hundred for a full night. By the time I drove home at dawn I had a list that totaled nearly a thousand dollars if every one of them showed up. That was the morning I woke up thinking about whoring my wife out.

Cindy was already downstairs in one of my old T-shirts, the hem barely covering the curve of her ass. Blonde curls framed her face. She smiled when I walked in.

“Rough night?”

“Busy. Tonight will be worse.”

She laughed and padded over to pour coffee. “Don’t OD on college-girl tits.”

“Takes two or three of them to equal what you’ve got.”

She rolled her eyes, but the compliment landed. We talked about the shortage of girls, the way the boys begged for “that kind of girl.” I told her flat out that any woman could make serious money taking care of them. She went quiet for a long minute, staring at the television without seeing it.

“They’re really willing to pay?”

“I’ve got a list.”

I brought the folded paper in from the car. She sat beside me on the couch and read every scribbled offer. Blowjobs from ten to thirty. Fucking from twenty-five to seventy-five. One kid wanted her ass for a hundred. Groups of six for three or five hundred. Her cheeks flushed. She kept saying “oh my God” under her breath, but she did not stop reading.

When she asked what the woman in the photo looked like, I flipped the paper. Her own face stared back at her, smiling in a red bikini from last summer. Silence stretched. Then she laughed, low and nervous.

“You showed them me?”

“Research.”

She stared at the picture a long time. Finally she said, “How much could I really make?”

That night I worked the parking lot with a new energy. Cindy stayed home, but she texted every hour asking if anyone had asked. By midnight three different groups had inquired about “the blonde with the big tits.” I told them to come back Friday. When I got home at four she was waiting in bed, naked under the sheet. We fucked hard. She came twice with my name in her mouth and then whispered against my ear that she wanted to try it. Just once. For the money. For the thrill. For me.

Friday afternoon she packed a small bag: the red tank top that barely contained her, a short denim skirt, black thong, garter belt and stockings because she said it made her feel dirty. We drove to the motel together. I checked her into room 112 under a fake name and paid cash for two nights. She kissed me at the door, long and slow, and told me to find her first customer.

The first one was a tall kid named Tyler, twenty-one, from some Midwest school. He had fifty dollars folded in his fist and the desperate look of a man who had been stroking it to the same porn for three days. I collected the money, walked him to the door, and texted Cindy that her first client was on the way. She answered the door in the tank top and skirt, nipples already hard. I stayed in the parking lot, heart hammering, half hard in my jeans.

Twenty-three minutes later Tyler walked out grinning like he had won the lottery. My phone rang.

“He came down my throat,” she said, voice husky. “Held my head so I had to swallow every drop. Tasted salty and hot. I can still feel it. Send me another one. Someone who wants to fuck.”

I did. A shorter guy with more money and less patience. He lasted twelve minutes. When he left he told me the bitch was married and that she had moaned about how her husband would love watching a big dick stretch her cunt. My cock throbbed so hard it hurt.

Word spread the way it always does at spring break. By midnight the line was informal but constant. I took the money—twenties, fifties, once a hundred-dollar bill—and sent them in. Cindy stopped calling between every one. She was too busy. At one point I walked past the window and heard the wet slap of skin and her muffled moans. Another time I heard her laughing and telling someone to fuck her harder, that her husband was outside collecting the cash like a good little pimp.

Around two in the morning a group of six approached. They had pooled five hundred and wanted her until they were empty. I negotiated myself into the room for an extra hundred out of my own pocket. When I opened the door the air was thick with sex. Sheets were soaked. Cum stains dotted the mattress like evidence. Cindy came out of the bathroom in nothing but the garter belt and stockings, thighs shiny, lipstick smeared, eyes bright.

“Checking up on your whore?”

“How are you holding up?”

“I haven’t come this many times in years. Think I can handle six more?”

“They’re waiting in 349. And I’m coming with you.”

She smiled, slow and filthy. “Bring the camera. I want my husband to have something to stroke to later.”

We walked the short distance. Just before the door she pulled the tank top off, pinched her nipples until they stood out like pencil erasers, then knocked. The door opened on six half-dressed, half-hard college boys and the smell of cheap beer. Cindy stepped inside like she owned the place.

“Does anyone here want to fuck?”

The answer was a chorus of yes. She climbed onto the middle of one bed and took charge. Two of them naked and on their backs beside her. She stroked both cocks at once, then lowered her mouth to the thicker one while her hand worked the other. The wet sounds filled the room. I filmed everything—the way her cheeks hollowed, the saliva that dripped down the shaft, the soft gag when she took him deeper. She switched. Switched again. After five minutes she reached under her skirt, pulled the thong aside, and looked at the kid on her left.

“Heads or tails?”

“Heads.”

She wiggled her ass at the other one. “Guess you get tails. Pussy only. My ass is still exit only… for now.”

He buried himself in one stroke. The wet sound of her cunt taking him was filthy and perfect. She moaned around the cock in her mouth. I kept the camera rolling as the first two came—one down her throat, one across her tits. The next two took their places. One fucked her from behind while she sucked the other. Her body rocked between them. Cum leaked down her thighs. She came hard enough that her legs shook, and the kid behind her groaned and flooded her. Another took his place immediately. She was a mess of saliva and cum and sweat, and she looked happier than I had seen her in years.

During a short break she noticed the tent in my pants. “Pull it out. I want to see it.”

I did. She stared at my cock, then smiled. “Special deal. Lick my creamy pussy for ten minutes and you can have my ass.”

I had never eaten another man’s load out of her. The idea should have disgusted me. Instead it made my balls ache. I lay back. She straddled my face and lowered her used cunt onto my mouth. Thick ropes of cum immediately coated my tongue. The taste was bitter and salty and hers all mixed together. I licked and sucked and swallowed while she sucked my cock to keep me from finishing too soon. The guys watched and cheered. When the ten minutes were up she rolled off, ass high, face down, and told me to take it.

I pushed into her slick pussy first to get wet, then lined up against her tight hole. She clenched. I pushed harder. She yelped. The guys held her down when she tried to squirm away. One shoved a pair of dirty boxers into her mouth. I spit on her hole, worked a finger in, then the head of my cock. The resistance was fierce. She sobbed and thrashed, but the moment the head popped inside she went still. I sank deeper, inch by inch, until my balls pressed against her. The heat and tightness were unreal. I fucked her ass slowly at first, then harder, the way I had dreamed for years. She came again with my cock buried in her ass and another guy’s load still leaking from her cunt. When I finally emptied into her it felt like the best orgasm of my life.

The rest of the night blurred into more rounds. She took every one of them again. Some in her mouth, some in her cunt, two more in her ass once they saw it was open for business. I filmed until the battery died. By the time the last kid staggered out, the sky was starting to lighten. Cindy lay in the middle of the ruined bed, covered in drying cum, breathing hard, smiling.