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By (user no longer on site) OP
over a year ago
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I have published this story on other sites. It is pure fantasy and not based on any actual events whatsoever. Cheers. Dan [hornsters]
"See you later hun, bye. Oh, Jodie, could you throw my other dark suit in for dry cleaning? Thanks, byeeee!!"
A routine start to a routine day that would change our lives for ever.
I normally do the dry cleaning run on the third Wednesday of the month. It was circled on the calendar in the kitchen with the note "dry cleaning" underneath it. A reminder pops up on the PC just in case I get to the PC before the kitchen. So, there I was gathering together all the clothing for the monthly spruce-up.
As usual I carried out a trawl of Dan's pockets, just to make sure that nothing important was dissolved in solvents. Dan's pockets never did hold anything of importance, but it was part of the routine. I was fishing out the usual collection of used train tickets and chewing gum wrappers when a glossy white card, embossed with gold lettering, caught my eye. The card announced; "Executive Stress Relief." I turned the card over and an icy cold hand gripped my heart as I read the words "Kelly and Samantha" and a phone number in Dan's hand writing. The icy hand released its grip, scalded by the rising heat of anger.
"BASTARD" I screamed. "The lying, cheating, scheming, deceitful, sleazy bastard."
I slumped down on the bed with my head in my hands and slowly forced myself to calm down. It may not be what it seems. It may be a counselling service for those suffering from work related stress. Counsellors tend to be female. Don't they? But if Dan was under so much stress at work, why hadn't he confided in me?
I decided to phone the number and ask them who they were and exactly what kind of relief they offered.
Never before has an answer phone so completely justified its description. My questions were immediately answered by the answer phone message. A very sultry, sexy voice told me that Kelly and Samantha were unavailable at that moment, that their business hours were two p.m. until midnight, and that if I would like to leave a message one of them would discreetly contact me to arrange an appointment. The voice signed off by assuring me that their special treatments would ease all of my stress. I slammed the phone down and paced up and down the bedroom biting my lip and fighting back the tears.
"Dirty bitches, slags, sluts, whores." What have they got that I haven't? Youth probably. But I'm only 28 years old. And what would they know about stress? They don't have to hold down a job, run a home, entertain bosses and clients, work out, dress nicely and try to look good 24/7. And I do look good. I dress nicely and the workouts have kept me in good shape.
I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I was wearing a smart, two piece business suit, dark with a very thin pinstripe. The skirt stopped about two inches above my knee and it was tailored to fit tightly around my bottom. The jacket was cut in such a way that there was no need to wear a blouse. My legs looked okay. My calf muscles, slightly extended by the trendy mid to high heels that I was wearing, looked good, sheathed in shiny, nearly black, hold up stockings. I slipped off my skirt, shrugged off my jacket and began to examine myself more closely. I unclipped my black bra, which had been holding my 36DD breasts snugly in place, and threw it on the bed. Even though I say it myself, my breasts have always been good, very good. And there they were again proud, firm, with large dark nipples that even now were beginning to respond to my own examination. The familiar tingle between my legs caused me to shift my gaze lower down my body. My black lycra thong was pulled tightly across my pussy so that it was easy to trace the outline of my slit, a slightly plump, protruding mound. Dan always said that I had a neat, pretty pussy. I removed my thong and inspected my pussy more closely. Normally it was completely shaven but this morning it was slightly bristly. I knew I was moist but resisted the temptation to pull my labia apart and let my juices flow out. Instead I took a half turn to inspect my butt. Not bad, could be better, but then my butt could always be better. Still it was firm enough to bounce coins off according to Dan.
Yes, I thought what the hell do they have that I haven't. There was only one way to find out.
I was on autopilot now. Almost totally without emotion, I called work and booked a days leave. Then I went to the walk in wardrobe. If I was going to confront these sluts I needed to look better than good. I needed to look drop dead gorgeous.
I selected my black silk underwear, black silk stockings and patent leather stiletto's. I fussed over a dress but finally settled on my favourite LBD that would stretch tightly over my breasts, butt and thighs. It was cut low enough to show off ample cleavage and high enough to give a glimpse of stocking top when I sat down. I'd cover myself with an overcoat until I got there then I'd show those bitches that my husband doesn't need stress relief from them.
I ran the bath added a few oils and then lay back for a soak. I shaved my pussy until it was as smooth as silk. I had to feel good to look good. I towelled off and waited for two o'clock. Then I made the call.
"Hi, this is Kelly. How may I help you?"
"Hello Kelly this is..." (Shit, who am I?) "Errrm...Jane" (Oh for God's sake).
"Hello......... erm Jane. Have you got the right number?" There was definitely amusement in her voice. Patronising bitch.
"Is this Executive Stress Relief?"
"Yes it is Jane. How may we help you?"
"Do you offer your services to women"
"Oh yes, Jane. Would you like to make an appointment?"
"Yes please. This afternoon if possible."
Bloody hell! I'd done it. I had ninety minutes to get ready and get there. They probably are drop dead gorgeous. Why not stay here and just have it out with Dan later? No! Knowledge is power. If I know exactly what he's been up to, describe the women and the place, he'll have nowhere to hide, no stories, no lies.
What seemed like a few minutes later I was knocking on the door of "Executive Stress Relief." I was about to storm in, tell the two money grabbing whores to keep their filthy hands of my husband, maybe slap a face or two and storm out again.
"Hi. You must be Jane. I'm Kelly. We spoke on the phone. Come in. Gosh you are absolutely beautiful."
A small, timid, nervous, mouse that was hiding behind my left shoe squeaked.
"Erm yes. Hello. Oh! Oh! Thanks, thank you, yes okay, thank you."
This wasn't what I'd imagined at all. Kelly led me into a spacious, art deco apartment, directed me to a chair and offered me a drink.
Kelly placed a glass of chilled Chardonnay beside me and asked what I'd like her or Samantha or both of them to do for me.
The pressures of the day welled up inside me and finally burst their banks.
I could hear myself babbling and sobbing, sometimes shouting, sometimes whispering, sometimes wailing. I needed to know who my husband had been fucking behind my back, and how many times he had been with them, and how much money he had spent, and why he needed to, and why wasn't I enough for him, and what was wrong with me, and why didn't he love me anymore?
My rambling was brought to an abrupt halt when Kelly calmly said,
"Jane, Jane. Calm down please. You've made a mistake. You see we don't "do" men."
"But I found your card in his pocket," I mumbled.
"Let me show you what I mean. Sam come here will you." |
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