The Happy Housewife
written by:
Naughty Miranda

"I can't believe it, it's lovely! And it's all so new!"

I was so excited that Harrison wasn't even able to carry me across the thresh-hold, like we'd planned. I was out of the carriage and in through the front door, like a kid at Christmas with the best gift in the world. A whole house of our own. What a way to start the new century. Hello 1900, and hello a brand new life.

No more squatting with Harrison's parents, crammed into the damp back room that we shared with our daughter, and ma's laundering service. No more lying awake while the old folks coughed in the room behind us, and the neighbors on the other side of rotten, paper-thin walls argued and battled until they ran out of cheap drink. And no more squinting to the light of a guttering candle stub, while tallow stank the room out, and soot turned everything black. "Harrison! We have gas! Look at the lights! They're actually gas! First thing tomorrow, I'm running out to buy a huge box of matches and a year's supply of mantels. I'm never going to light a candle again."

"Hey, steady on." Still balancing the boxes that were crammed with our belongings, he edged his way in behind me. "We're not made of money."

"Not now, maybe, but I know we will be. You get your feet under the table with the Royals, I'll pick up a little something or other and, before you know it, we'll be rolling in dosh."

We could be, as well. Harrison was what you'd call a Rising Star in labor relations, working with the stevedores who handled the loading at St Katherine's Dock, making certain they got their fair crack ahead of the cheap bum casuals that the company preferred to employ. He'd already led his first strike, last year down at Tilbury, and this was his reward, one of the biggest docks in London and a brand new house of our own, paid for by grateful union subscriptions.

"I hope you're right, Connie. To be honest, I'm a little nervous about all this."

"Harrison Harper, don't you dare say that again. You're going to work miracles, and this time next year, who knows where you'll be?" He had this dream of uniting all the disparate dock unions into one vast combine, all for one and one for all, and just think what that would mean. For the first time, the workers would have complete power over the bosses. No more indiscriminate hiring and firing, no more "do the job or we'll find someone else" blackmail. And no more working all hours for a pittance in pay. They'd actually be making an honest wage, and that's where I come into the picture. Because, if the men have more money to spend in their pockets, then I'll be there to lick up the cream. If you know what I mean.

There are two types of woman in this life. Either you're a do-er, or you're a get-done-to. I'm a do-er. Even before I met Harrison, and got knocked up with little Sally, I never wanted for much. You know that old saying, "where there's muck, there's brass?" Well, it's true. And the more muck you're willing to sift through, the more brass you'll pick up at the end. I'll suck them for nine-pence, but to swallow, that's a florin and, if they turn around and tell me I'm charging too much, then I tells them back. You might get it cheaper from some tart down the road. But you won't get it better, and you'll be back here next time.

See, I'm an artist, and to be an artist, you have to specialize. But just because you know what I specialize in, that doesn't mean my husband does, so this is between me and you, right? Me and you, and I'll see you alright later on, I swear.

Harrison's a drip. A lovely one, mind you, and I wouldn't hear a word said against him, because he treats me right and he's the father of our kid. Plus, he's dynamite when there's a bee in his bonnet, like politics or exploitation, or some bastard company skimping on materials. Around the house, though, he's timid as a dormouse. Even our Sal can give him what for, and she's not even ten, yet. Takes after me, that one, and that's not a bad thing. She's a do-er as well.

You know how some women moan on, especially when they've had a few, bemoaning their lot in life, and carrying on about how life ain't fair, and God treats them rotten. You hear them down the boozer, "oh, I'm just a common prostitute, dirty and degraded..." except they don't use words that fancy, because most of them are thick as shit.

Me, though? Do you know your Cockney rhyming slang? "A plate of ham"? That's what I'm good at. Plating. And I love it as well. If I'm a prozzy, I'm proud of it, and if I'm a whore, I'm happy. I prefer to think of myself as a fellatrix, and a bloody good one at that.

But every profession needs a name, so just pick the one you're most comfortable with. I'm not ashamed of what I do, because what is there to be ashamed about? Just because a bunch of do-gooder God-botherers have taken it into their heads to go around the East End, reforming the fallen in the name of the Savior, well who are they to decide who's fallen, and who needs to be reformed? Start at the top, mate, that's what I say, and if you really want to put an end to poverty, then change the system that makes it happen in the first place. And hark at me, I sound like Harrison, off on one of his rabble-rousing speeches.

Okay, let's check out the lay of the land. The streets around here, they're all spanking new, specially built in the last year or so. I don't know what they're named for. Half of them, some bloody Yank must have done it, because it's all Manila this and Havana that, like they're remembering that silly bugger war with Spain a few years ago. Dunno why, don't we have enough wars of our own? Quite fancy living on Zulu Terrace or Assegai Avenue, I do. But there again, the mess we've been making with those Boers in South Africa, maybe our own fights aren't so glamorous any more.

So there's those streets, all narrow and higgledy-piggledy they are, and then suddenly it opens up and you're on Alpha Grove, which is a bloody stupid name as well, because it sounds like some bugger's half-inched half of it. Alpha-what? Alphabet, Alpha-Omega... finish the sentence, for God's sake. Just don't leave us dangling there. But the street's wide enough to drive three carriages down, and they planted trees and they piped in gas, and I think they even gave old St Luke's a lick of paint before people started moving in to the new houses. And, when I look out of my front parlor window, what do I see? If that girl's not a trollop, then I'm the queen of Sheba.

I watched her curiously. My height, but with bright red hair piled up in what I've always thought ought to be called the Fuck Me style. I keep my hair short and smart, not only because I like it that way but also because... well, doing what I do, stuff gets stuck in it sometimes, and it's easier to cut it out with some scissors, and no-one will notice the difference, if you don't have great tresses billowing about. But fair dos to her, she wears it well, and her body's sharp and her tits look like they've got minds of their own. I wondered what she charged.

Moving into a spanking new neighborhood, it never even crossed my mind that I might actually have some competition. But it makes sense, doesn't it? The Isle of Dogs is hardly Knightsbridge or Kensington and, though they shifted the shacks that used to be here, they were scarcely going to shift the people who lived in them as well. Maybe I'd send Sal over tomorrow, to see how the red-head's set up. Everyone loves a cute little kid, and Sal's as sweet as a nut.

Then, if I like how it sounds and can see room for improvement... and there's always some of that... maybe we'll work something out between us. It's amazing how amenable some folk can be, if you just give them the right opportunities. And, if they're not, it doesn't hurt to mention, by way of family background, that my dad used to run with the Old Nichol gang, over in Bethnal Green. Even after a dozen years, there are still some girls on the street who reckon they had a lot more to do with old Jack the Ripper than the rozzers ever let on to the public. Bad enough that the law couldn't break up the gang. Even worse to think they were out settling scores, right under Mr Policeman's impotent nose.

"I'm going up to bed. It's been a long day." Harrison drew the curtains - upon my word, curtains! The best we ever had before was a sheet of moth-eaten cotton, which let in more light than it ever kept out. I turned in my chair, caught his waist and hugged him. "I'll be up later. I want to sort out the kitchen first." (A kitchen! Not a scullery, not a cook pot in the fireplace, a proper kitchen with its very own coal range!). He stooped and kissed the top of my head, and I started unpacking boxes. Once business started picking up, I knew I'd be busy enough for both of us. So I wanted to get the house prim and proper first.

Window boxes. I want window boxes, primroses in the spring, and pansies in autumn. There was a garden out back. I'll have roses. And hollyhocks. Ivy on the outhouse. I'll pick up some rugs... nice ones, none of the tat you find on the Lane every Sunday... and some pictures for the wall. See, I've always believed, it's not what you do for a living that matters, it's what you do with the proceeds.

There are some girls on the street, every penny they earn, they just pour it straight down their throat. So, they get drunker and dirtier, and the punters stop coming, because who wants to pay to fuck something that stinks, and they're stretched out in a pauper's grave, before they've even hit 30. Me, I takes their money just the same, but I spend it on nice things. Pretty frocks, clean under-clothing, a dab of spicy perfume, and nick-nacks for the house. And, when Harrison comes in and sees me sitting like a Lady, surrounded by all that finery, won't he be proud of how I stretch out the housekeeping, and bring in a little extra with my embroidery and sewing?

That's the plan, and that's how it worked. The girl that I saw, the red-head? Common as muck, but a heart of gold. Lived just around the corner, the first house on Tooke Street, bang next door to the Islander. She was all on her own, apart from her widowed mum upstairs, and she was nutty as a fruitcake, so Ruth could do what she liked. Which she did, on her back in the front room for threepence a go. Threepence, I told her? You must be half-barmy. I won't even open my fist for that. Make it sixpence at least, and buy some decent clothes. Then go up to a shilling, and they won't bat an eyelid, because they'll think they're going with class. I'll stick with me ninepenny ones, because I don't spread my legs for no-one but Harrison, and at the end of each day, we'll split fifty-fifty. You keep the front parlor, I'll take the back, and I'll meet you at the dock gates tomorrow. There's always an army there looking for work, and what better way to drown their sorrows if they don't get picked for a job, than in the arms of a high class lady?

Tossing them off? Barely worth your while. Charge ‘em tuppence, but let them know, for a few coppers more, they could get a lot better. You can't be too picky, mind. Word gets around if you are. "Oh, she won't go with blacks, with Irish, with Chinamen," and then the others start wondering who else you won't go with. If they've got the money, then you've got the job, that's how I look at it, and the only line I ever draw is the ones who stink, or if they want something weird. How weird? That's up to you. Up the back? You could charge half a crown for that, easy. A bit of a beating? Make it a dollar. And there's some who'll just want to watch. Threepence if the other guy's up for it, a nice round tanner if the watcher has to hide. We'll rig up some hidey-holes. Should I be writing all this down?

We'd been in business two months, and we were coining it in. One week, I even brought home more than Harrison, thirty-six shillings and some coppers to spare. The furniture that we'd carried with us, and the few sticks the union had thrown in with the house, most of it had been given away now, to be replaced by something better. I had half a dozen new dresses, more than I'd ever owned in my life, and when Sal went to school, she was the envy of her classmates, with her ribbons and her bows and her shoes that didn't leak.

Keep this up, Ruth laughed one day, and the neighbors would start to talk. But we'd already thought of that, hadn't we? Harrison thought I was home all day, running a little embroidery business, and so I was. Or rather, I would have been, if Ruth's mum hadn't spent her whole life as a seamstress and, no matter what was wrong with the rest of her mind, she'd never lost her skill with a needle. Whatever we charged our customers for a job, we kept a third for ourselves, and gave the rest to mum. The old girl was happy as a clam and, as she never went anywhere to spend it, it would be coming back to Ruth soon enough.

We had a giggle, too, sometimes about the customers, and sometimes with them. There was this old boy, the captain of one of the windjammers, came in one day for a ninepenny one, but he had a bit of a problem. He hadn't been able to get it up for years, so would I mind just pretending? Make the right noises, say the right things, and he'd be happy to pay me double.

Well, I wasn't going to say no to that, so I popped out his old floppy, and I kissed it and licked it and sucked on his balls, all the while making sounds like my mouth was full of cock, and praising his strength and his hardness and so on. And then suddenly he was stiff as a board, and I don't know who was the most surprised, him when he looked down and saw a veritable bow-spite sticking out of his pants, or me who was impaled on the end of the thing, while all those years of pent up spunk went spurting down my throat? He gave me ten shillings and went back to his ship with a smile the size of an ocean.

And then, one day, trouble. I remember the date, because it was smack between Christmas and the New Year, and we'd been rushed off our feet. Or our knees. December 29, 1900. There must have been 50 ships at the West India alone, all being loaded or unloaded or something in-between, but of course, because it was Christmas, no-one was working too hard. I must have sucked half the nationalities in the world that week, and I swallowed so much mess that I actually had to stop doing it. I know it's meant to be good for you, but Jap and Ruskie and Frenchie and Yank, all sloshing round in my stomach, it was beginning to make me feel queasy. Now I kept a handkerchief handy, put on a big show of dribbling it out, and charged them an extra sixpence for the sight. They paid without a murmur.

I was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when Ruth came tearing in. At first, I thought she'd been attacked... we'd had some of that, which is why we bought the cricket bat. One swipe round the back of the skull, and the biggest bruiser was out for the count. But that wasn't it.

"Connie. It's your Harrison. He's outside with some other fellows, and I think he's coming in."

What? The stinking, cheating.... Twelve years of marriage, and I don't think he'd even looked at another woman. But then somebody tells him there's a knocking shop down the road, and he's got his dick out and primed in a flash. I'll kill him and I was halfway across the room when I thought, he'd probably kill me first. He was here for one quick fuck. I'd been dispensing them for almost nine months. I calmed right down when I thought of that. "Can you find out what he wants?"

Ruth gave me the sort of look you normally reserve for simpletons, the "what do you think he wants?" kind of look that almost set me raving again. "I mean... I know what he wants, but what what does he want?" I gazed longingly at the back door, leading out to the toilet, and on to the back alley. But where could I run to? I stood my ground.

Why was he here? Again, apart from the obvious reasons. True, we'd been wed for twelve years, and we were often too tired to do more than cuddle. But since we'd moved into a bedroom of our own, we'd probably enjoyed more sex... proper sex, not just a helping hand under the coats and blankets, for fear of waking the kid... than we'd had in five years before that. Better sex as well. A good whore doesn't only do what her customers want, after all. She remembers what they want, and adds new tricks to her trade. Away from work, and the need to do things quick (because there's always another customer, champing at the bit), I enjoyed showing Harrison the things I'd just picked up. And why do you think I kept my cunny clean, and never let another man touch it? Because I didn't want my husband to have to share.

Ruth returned, her face pale. "He wants to see you. Shall I send him in?"

Well, the jig's up. I moved to the knife rack, measured the distance to the nearest big blade. I didn't want to hurt him, but the feeling might not be mutual. If I had to defend myself, I would.

Ruth obviously had the same thought;. As Harrison appeared in the doorway, I saw her in the hall behind him, both hands gripping the cricket bat handle.

"Harrison." I kept my voice neutral, my tone heavy.

"Constance." He looked at me, his eyes betraying nothing. "Are you having a good day?"

I nodded.

"I see you're busy."

I nodded again. Get to the point, won't you?

"It's alright, I've known all along." He smiled. "You can't keep many secrets in a place like this, and you've not exactly been hiding all the money, have you?"

"I suppose not." I cursed to myself. There I was, sailing along thinking I was being so clever, when all I was really was careless. "What do you want to do?" A divorce, of course. I'd probably have to move away... my sister up in Finsbury would take me in for a while. Maybe I could set up business out that way. I had some money saved as well. What about Sal? I wasn't going to give her up without a fight, but it wouldn't be much of a life for her, would it, with me working all the hours God sends. I'd probably have to open my legs as well. Fuck it, I enjoyed being a specialist. Why did you have to come along and spoil it, Harrison? Why?

"I want to watch. It's threepence, isn't it?" He reached a hand into his pocket, pulled out three pennies, and Ruth neatly sashayed around him and plucked them away. "That's right, deary. But only if any of the other good gentlemen fancy a fuck with an audience. Otherwise it's a tanner, and we'll hide you in the wardrobe."

"Sixpence?" He looked a little puzzled, but pulled out some more change. "That's fine. I'd rather not be seen." He smiled guiltily. "I do have a reputation to keep up. Besides, the money goes to a good cause, I assume?" He glanced at me.

"Fifty-fifty, that's what we do," Ruth cackled. I was so relieved to see her take control like this. I was still frozen to the spot, mouth open, eyes like saucers, not so much shocked as turned to stone. I knew if I moved, I'd fall flat on my face.

Ruth took his hand. "Now, come along, let's get you tucked away before my next fellow comes along."

Harrison was looking more appalled by the second. "Oh, no. Not you. I mean... no offense, but I don't want to watch you. I want to watch Connie."

Ruth rolled her eyebrows theatrically. "You do, do you? Well, it's your loss. I don't ‘alf put on a show when I know there's someone watching. You really don't want to miss it."

"No, I'm sure I don't," Harrison stammered, and now I stepped forward. Suddenly it was obvious what was going on. A lot of men... well, a lot of my clients, anyway... had confessed that the biggest thrill they could imagine would be watching their wife with another man, and I'd smile sympathetically, and suggest they simply ask her. None of them would, of course, they just didn't have the guts. Well, chalk one up for Harrison. I didn't personally understand what the appeal of such a spectacle might be. But at least he'd come out and admitted it.

At the same time, though, would I even be able to go through with it? "Well, that really is more Ruth's specialty than mine," I demurred. "I just like to...."

"What?" he asked, hurriedly. "What do you like to do? With other men?"

I don't think I'd ever seen him look this way before, his eyes wild, the veins in his forehead protruding and pulsing. He was sweating, and he had one hand down the front of his breeches, and there was no disguising what he was up to down there. He wanted this badly, so I'd better give it to him.

I looked him straight in the eye "I suck them off, Harrison. Down on my knees with their prick in my mouth. All the way down to the root, if they want." If he'd let me complete my sentence, I was going to tell him I liked to do it quickly - and, believe me, I can. "Whooops, dear," I'd shriek as they twitched and groaned and squirted. "Someone was a little over-excited today. Why don't you come back tomorrow, and we'll try it again." Some of my regulars, and they were regulars, were returning almost religiously, convinced that it was their fault that they couldn't hold back for more than a minute, but always so desperate to prove that they could. One boy, Albie Bannister, from the butcher's down the road, had even taken to bringing his pocket watch with him, to measure his improvement, second-by-second.

"And then what? You suck them. Then what?"

"They leave."

"No, before they leave. What happens?"

"They ejaculate..." Ah, I get it. "All over me, hot and thick and white and sticky. Sometimes, it's all over my face, and I can feel it drying there while I wipe them off, dripping off my forehead and into my eyes, or running into my mouth, and I stick out my tongue as far as it'll go, and lick it into my mouth. Or sometimes I let them do it in my mouth, and I swallow it down, and I tell them it's delicious, and please will they come back and feed me some more."

"I want to see you take it in the face," Harrison said. "I want to watch it dripping off your chin, so you have to wipe it away with your hand. I want you to get it in your eye and up your nose."

"You want to watch a ninepenny one." He furrowed his brow. "The other's two bob," I explained. "Well, you know, it's more work for me. But don't worry, Ruth's not the only one who can put on a show."

I led him to the secret doors that we'd cut, one from the kitchen that led into my parlor, one from the glory hole that opened into Ruth's. Both ended up in large, airy wardrobes, with spy holes and cushions... Ruth had even suggested leaving a bottle of something in there, but that was laying it on a bit thick, I decided. "We don't want them getting too comfortable, else all of our customers will be queuing to watch, and we'll have to start fucking each other." She cackled aloud, but then we eyed one another. We'd already had a couple of requests, but we always turned them down. But there was probably big money in lesbianism, and there was also a lot less mess. Once the Christmas rush died down, maybe we'd give it some thought.

"How will I know when to come through?" Harrison asked.

"I'll let you know. You just wait here. When I have a visitor I think you'll enjoy, I'll come back here and tell you. I always bring our guests a glass of water - you'd be surprised how many big strong men find their throats turn to dust, the moment you ask what their fancy might be."

I stepped out into the hallway. Two figures were sitting halfway up the stairs, two more were slouched against the wall. I felt their eyes turn towards me as I approached.

"So who do we have here today?" I trilled. A cheery voice, a bit of Cockney, it's what they all expected, especially if they're from outside London. "Well, love a ducky, deario, that's the biggest I've seen in all my born days." Ruth could do it a lot better than me, but I got by. Damn, I forgot to ask Harrison if he wanted black or white - the Krooman on the stairs was a ninepenny addict, every time he docked. "Who wants a nice suck, then?"

The Krooman didn't move, but the boy sitting him next to him - my word, he couldn't have been more than 18 or 19 - raised his hand. I giggled. "No need to stand on such ceremony here, lad. The only thing I need you to put up is..." I reached between his legs and squeezed. The boy looked at his companion, who nodded sagely. How sweet, the old hand indoctrinating the boy into the mysteries of life. "I've only got sevenpence, though," the boy whispered. "So I was wondering, could I just have..." he furrowed his brow, and I watched him counting on his fingers. "Three quarters of one?"

I laughed, knowing the first thing he needed was to break down his reserve. "And have me miss the best bit? Tell you what, you can have it for seven pence, but if you enjoy it, promise you'll bring the rest next time?"

He nodded solemnly, and I took his hand, led him into my parlor. I excused myself while I nudged Harrison into his cubby hole, then steered the lad to the old wood table, which I knew lay right in the spyhole's line of sight. I undid his belt, then fell to my knees, tugging down his breeches and uncloaking his cock.

Soft it was, but I knew how to remedy that, pinching his foreskin between thumb and forefinger, and then sweeping my tongue around the shaft until the blood started pounding and he began to harden. I tugged back the skin and slipped a thick, meaty knob into my mouth. I shot a glance sideways to where Harrison crouched. Usually when I'm doing this, my mind is anywhere but on the job - I know what to do and I do it automatically. But this was different. The knowledge that my husband was just a few feet away, watching excitedly as I worked my magic, maybe holding his own cock and jerking it gently... it was actually making me wet as well.

The boy was huge. His eyes still looked uncertain, but his cock unfolded like a firehose, and that's exactly what it felt like. With both hands wrapped around his shaft, his helmet still stuck out at the end, and when it twitched as my tongue tapped the tip, it actually jerked my hands with it.

I clenched my teeth, then folded my lips tightly around the very toppermost tip, around the eye where the nerve-ends were sharpest. His hands gripped the table edge and he let out a groan, so I slipped a little more in and suckled even harder, watching as one of his knees began to buckle. You can only do this for a few seconds at a time, the sensations are sometimes so intense that some men even complain they hurt. But it gives them a taste of what's in store, and why a mouth's much more fun than even the wettest cunt, and that's what keeps my regulars regular.

Well, that and this. I lay my hands on the back of his thighs and began pulling him towards me, feeling that long, hard cock sliding into my mouth. Every ounce of tenseness had left him now; raising my eyes, I saw his face break into the most peaceful smile. I hoped Harrison could see it, too.

I stopped sucking, to let my lips and his hips do the work. He was moving back and forth now, first probing... then poking... and now fucking my face. His thrusts grew stronger. I wondered what might happen if he tried to push his entire length in, and hoped I'd have the chance to find out. Usually, I don't do it like this; I keep the cock in my hands at all times, so things never spiral out of my control. But Harrison wanted a show and, Heaven help me, I wanted to give him one.

I leaned back on my calves, pulling the boy forward. His hands let go of the table edge and, for a split second, I thought he might tumble. But he caught his balance, I straightened my legs, and now I was lying flat on my back, with him crouching over my face, and his prick driving relentlessly in and out of my mouth.

His breath came out in short, sharp yelps, mine was reduced to muffled, nasal snorts... and then I heard a third, hot and heavy, close to my shoulder. I opened my eyes - the wardrobe door hung open, and my husband was beside me, his stiff cock just inches from my face, almost touching the boy's shaft as it pounded in and out.

I heard him speak. "Fuck the slut. Stick your cock in her fat juicy cunt and fuck her." Oh my God, I didn't think Harrison even knew words like that. "Go on, sailor. Fuck her cunt."

The boy paused for a moment, then whipped himself away, and I felt rough hands tugging at my under-garments, then my mind was whipped away from there as Harrison drove his own prick into my mouth, pushed himself to the back of my throat, and hung there, with just the tiniest thrusts of his hips to try and sink himself even deeper.

The boy was inside me too, his length sinking through my sodden folds, piercing further than I'd ever felt before. It hurt a little, dull thuds of pain as he slammed against my cervix, but I was gagged by cock and pinned down by bodies. Still not thrusting, Harrison was pushing faster and faster; I knew his end was coming and I braced myself for the hot salty flood. But he'd wanted to see me with spunk on my face, and that's what he got, pulling out as the first blast seared my tonsils, and spilling his cream in hot splashes on my skin. And then the boy was spurting too, crying out and pushing in as a series of paroxysms rocked his body, and my cunt filled with juices that squelched as he withdrew.

I attempted to rise, but Harrison was faster, pushing me back down and raising my ass, then burying his face in between my legs, sucking and licking and moaning with pleasure.

My head was spinning, I wondered whether I was dreaming? Or maybe I was dead, slaughtered by my jealous husband in the kitchen up the hall, and now I was up in Prostitute Heaven. But no, even Heaven couldn't feel this heavenly, flat on my back with my legs in the air, while my husband drank another man's seed from my soaking, seething cunt.

I heard the door close as the boy left the room, heard his voice loud and exultant in the hallway, and the memory of his body and all it had done to me flooded my soul, to swim with the feelings that lapped up from my loins. I came, hard and violent, and heard Harrison gag as the shock waves pushed more mess from the depths of my hole, onto his tongue and down his throat. I wondered if he was tiring... hoped that he wasn't, then decided not to give him the choice. I raised myself quickly and rolled over hard, trapping his head between my thighs, and almost flinging him onto his back beneath me. Then I rode his mouth as firmly as he had fucked mine, grinding my clitoris against his flesh and smearing sperm and juices all over his face, and I came again as I pictured that, and imagined licking him clean in the aftermath.

Then it was all over, and he was dressing to leave, to go back to work and let me return to mine. He didn't speak, or even look at me. In fact, it was hard to know what he was thinking at all. We'd never done anything like that in the past, never so passionately... selfishly... crudely. I stepped over and kissed him, then put out my hand.

"Fifteen bob, mister."

"Excuse me?"

"Fifteen shillings. I'm sorry, Harrison, but I'm still on the clock, husband or no husband. I could have got through half a dozen customers while you were here, so I'm actually letting you off lightly. Plus, you gave the boy a free ride, and somebody ought to pay for that."

He flushed a little, but he reached for his wallet and pulled out a gold sovereign. "Will this cover everything?"

I took it from his hand. "Very nicely, sir. In fact, I think it might even leave you a little in credit, should you ever choose to visit us again."

"I expect I will," he said seriously, and then reached for my hand. "You see, I love my wife very much... so much, in fact, that there are some things I would never ask her to do in bedroom."

"I completely understand, sir, and I'm pleased to be of service. And should any of your friends have similar requests, I hope you'll mention us to them. Our rates may be a little higher than some, but we guarantee that you will get what you paid for."

"Maybe I will," he said. "But in return, you have to promise me one thing."

"If I can."

"If my wife ever asks, you'll deny everything."

I smiled and kissed him again. "It's a deal."