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Helene had recently rigged the living room speakers to her office computer on the second floor. That was one of the many reasons Jackson hadn’t been bothering to watch TV or listen to music in the living room much. Now, the speakers blared to life with Rhianna’s “S&M”—the extended, extra-dirty mix.
The throbbing rhythm echoed across the hardwood floors. Even above it, he could hear the deafening click-click-click of very high heels on the hardwood stairway—so he was watching for her when she entered.
Those heels were loud, all right, in more ways than one. The heels were maybe eight inches; the balls of Helene’s feet rested on two-inch, clear-plastic platforms, strapped in by bright red leather that also criss-crossed all the way up her perfect, freshly shaved calves almost to her knees, where they gave way to just the white stockings with the lace tops maybe two inches south of the hem of Helene’s pleated plaid skirt. The lacy tops had red bows in front and back, and she wasn’t wearing garters. Her tits were tied up into a white blouse knotted just under and between them, and while they often defied gravity in Jackson’s mind, he had no doubt that under that blouse they were packed into a seriously aggressive push-up bra. Her nipples stood out rock hard through the see-through white material. A straight black tie dangled between them.
Jackson froze for a moment. Was she a schoolgirl or—
Helene killed the light and turned on the disco lamp she’d insisted on, over Jackson’s protests. Jackson was pretty glad she’d insisted now. Her body dancing with colored lights, she sashayed across the hardwood floors easily. She had a grace that Jackson wondered at; he couldn’t believe this was his wife. Her hips swung and pivoted to the music, a bump-and-grind that left very little mystery as to what was on her mind—or what she wanted to be on her “client’s” mind.
The loud music shrouded Helene’s joyfully singing along as she swung and pirouetted around the room toward a gaping Jackson. The skirt was pleated, not tight, so she had quite a bit of mobility. But there really wasn’t very much to it. There were inches of creamy pale perfect flesh between her stocking tops and the skirt. If Jackson had happened across a grainy JPG of this woman on the Internet, he would have popped a boner instantly. He sure as hell popped one now.
Jackson stared at his dancing wife. He grabbed his wallet. He took out a stack of ones, fives, tens; he resisted the urge to count them, and just held them up where Helene could see them. She blew him a kiss, bent over, lifted the skirt. She worked her ass obscenely back and forth in time with the music. A sickening swarm of disco dots sparkled over her perfect ass. Her hand dipped down into her panties, tugged the G-string to the side and gave him a filthy little look as she tapped her sex with her long-nailed fingers. He saw she was shaved. Thank heaven for Helene’s long showers, he thought.
Jackson leaned out, waving a five. Helene let him slide it into her G-string, slowly, sensuously caressing his fingers with hers as he tried not to touch her pussy—because you weren’t supposed to, right?
He didn’t. He got the five in her G-string without going too far, while his dancing wife waved her pussy in his face and smiled. He had a twenty ready in his other hand. He showed it to her, saw her eyes light up. She backed her ass up, closer—close enough that Jackson could smell her, smell it, smell her pussy and her ass and the perfume she’d dotted on her thighs. He felt dizzy and drunk and wished he had a highball like in a real strip club; he needed one. With the twenty in play, Helene brought her ass very close to Jackson’s face. He slid it in easy, closer to her pussy this time, and once it was seated, Helene reached back with her naughty little fingers and pulled her husband’s hand in deeper. He felt the smooth perfect texture of her sex against his hand; his hard dick throbbed ever harder.
He barely got a touch; she was moist, but she was working. She gave him just as much as he deserved for twenty dollars—then she pirouetted off across the room and started stripping.
If there was not very much to the skirt, there was even less to the top. It had been a white blouse, once upon a time, but she’d tied it up tight under her upthrust tits. There were four buttons secured between the knot of the black tie and the knot of the blouse. Between the buttons, the tight blouse gapped. The whisper of a cranberry-lace push-up bra spilled out, and Helene’s breasts spilled out of that. As she loosened the tie and unbuttoned the top, Jackson’s eyes widened. He waved a twenty. Helene gave him a friendly sneer, singing along with the music. She left her blouse half-undone—her cleavage now maddeningly visible—and pulled the barrette from the back of her head, releasing her cascade of blonde hair—no pigtails for this schoolgirl. She whipped her hair everywhere and leaned in tight and hard against Jackson to rub her tits in his face.
She smelled so perfect—trashy perfume, pussy, sweat, shower, laundry detergent. She rubbed her tits in his face and mouthed, “You wanna see more?” with her eyes on the twenty. Jackson did. He held up the twenty and she finished undoing her blouse. She leaned down, cleavage in his face, and Jackson eased up the twenty. He pushed it into her bra, and Helene lost the blouse in one slutty shimmy motion, while she rubbed her cleavage all over his face.
It was a new song—2 Live Crew or some shit, Digital Underground, maybe, some kind of hot, hard hip-hop thing about fucking and sucking. On the top, Helene just wore the cranberry push-up bra and the straight black tie. She spun away from Jackson, leaving her husband staring open mouthed. The twenty disappeared. Helene bent over again and showed him her thighs, her ass, her pussy. Her hips worked wildly, mimicking intercourse; if she’d done this routine in a strip club somewhere, Jackson figured she’d either find herself buried by a shower of money or locked up in a county jail cell.
Helene worked through a furious routine as Jackson watched and waved bills. After the hip-hop there was the blaring explosive throb of White Zombie’s “More Human Than Human,” to which Helene went bat-shit crazy. She loved this damned song. She didn’t earn a single bill while she flipped out on the floor, facedown, ass up, hips pumping in a fascinating mimicry of some nasty, hard fuck. She didn’t earn a single bill, but Jackson never stopped waving them, or watching his wife go to town. By the end of it, she was soaked in sweat and all but dripping.
She was so hot, in fact, that she very badly needed to lose her skirt when some crappy ’80s rock shit started. Jackson couldn’t stand this kind of cracker shit, but he didn’t really care. Helene wiggled over to Jackson and sang along; something about cherries, pie, sweet—whatever. She looked so goddamn good dancing to it that it almost made Jackson like the song—but not quite. He was thoroughly distracted, though, by very badly wanting his wife to get naked.
Helene did—but slowly, torturously, teasing him.
She gave up the skirt in installments, slowly working it down her slightly spread legs while she rubbed her ass in Jackson’s face and he reached around and rubbed bills over her belly, her thighs, her tits. Every now and then, she’d check the denomination and put her hand on his, guiding it down or up into her G-string or her bra. Every five he slid into the front of his wife’s G-string got him another inch; every five he slid into her bra got one bra strap down or one tit out of its bra cup.
When her bra finally came off, she shoved it in Jackson’s face. He took a deep breath and smelled her essence on the cranberry lace.
Helene was practically naked, now—and yet not naked at all. She wore nothing and everything—stockings, G-sting, and those shoes with the crisscross leather straps on up to her stockinged knees. She looked filthier than Jackson had ever felt she looked when she was stark-raving naked, beautiful and tender, pale and perfect sprawled across their bed. There, she looked pure, innocent, shameless and very, very married. Here, she looked like a whore, like a slut, like a bitch if she had to be, like a money-hungry working girl who would go as far as she needed to get every soft, moist bill out of Jackson’s hand. She looked like the kind of girl out to take what she could get and give what she had to and clearly planning on getting everything while giving as little as possible.
She had her husband in the palm of her hand.
The music still blared; she still danced. But Helene had apparently reached her tease-and-denial limit; she was all over Jackson. Her G-string still stuffed with bills, she crawled on him and gave him the unsolicited lap dance of his life, grinding her body all over him, her ass on his cock, her hair in his face, her tits and her hands all over him—never quite in the places a stripper couldn’t go…but always damn close. Just like a real stripper…only better.
Because Jackson was getting to the point where he was going to grab his wife and take her to bed whether she liked it or not.
And he was pretty damn sure she’d like it.
But for one and a half songs, he obediently sat on his hands while she danced herself into a frenzy atop him, sweating everywhere. She went farther and farther with every hard grind against his body, until her bare tits were slippery with sweat and he couldn’t stop himself from taking her nipple in his mouth.
And here was where the two of them lost it; they couldn’t play the game anymore. Her hands seized his and guided them up to her tits. He played with her nipples while she kissed him, kissed his ear, his neck, groped hungrily after his shorts.
Then she was down, out of Jackson’s grasp—down on her knees, and his cock was in her mouth before he knew it. He could have spilled himself into her mouth with barely any effort, but Helene was too much of an expert to let that happen. She teased him, letting him run his hands through her hair while she sucked his balls, pinched his cockhead, held him right there on the edge. She knew exactly when her husband had cooled; that’s when she slid her way up his body and guided his cock to her smooth-shaved pussy.
A real stripper would have used a condom—even if she was the kind of stripper who did clients in the VIP room for an extra two hundred dollars. She would have rolled a condom over a stranger’s cock—even in the shadows, even when the bouncer had been tipped to look the other way. Helene didn’t do that—but then, she also hadn’t upped the price before putting out. She just pulled her G-string out of the way and slid her smooth, perfect puss down over her husband’s cock, teasing him with soft firm strokes of his cockhead up and down in her slit. Her eyes crossed and sometimes rolled back as she tried to stay grinding to the music, but pretty soon she couldn’t stand it. She slid his cockhead to her entrance and sat down on him hard.
She rode him slowly, kissing him, making eye contact, biting her upper lip hard and whimpering so loud he heard her over the music. It was an excellent position—the head of his cock hit that spot she so very much loved. She rubbed herself furiously, her finger making eager circles on her clit as Jackson’s hands dug into the flesh of her soft round ass.
She came an instant before her husband did. She shivered and spasmed atop him. Then she looked in his eyes and begged him for it: “Please, baby. Give it to me.” Jackson couldn’t hold back. It only took a few more thrusts; he lifted his hips to plunge deep into her.
Then he came in his wife, as the music peaked.
