After Franklin left late that Saturday afternoon, I decided a relaxing bubble bath would be just what my abused body needed. His gargantuan sex tool, along with the enormous size of his body, left me more than a little sore. I poured myself a glass of wine, then decided to take the bottle with me knowing I'd be soaking for some time and figuring my throat would need more than one glass to soothe its cock stretched flesh.

I had helped design our rather large master bath ten years before, specifying that an oversized tub for two be positioned in the corner of the room, with large picture windows overlooking the wooded area behind the house.

The raised platform where the tub is located is finished with imported Italian tile. Recessed lighting above is controlled with a dimmer switch, and the specially designed windows have glass that allows persons inside to have a clear view of what's outside while blocking anyone outside from seeing in, so no window treatments or mini blinds are needed. The glass also has an anti-fogging feature, so hot, steamy baths didn't cause condensation from forming, blocking the view of the dense woods outside.

As the tub filled and relaxing bubbles formed on the surface of the hot water, I lit candles at each corner and placed my wineglass on the ledge surrounding the tub. I stood before the vanity, gazing at myself in the large mirror. Applying a generous amount of cold cream, I removed the makeup I'd used earlier to entice Franklin to my bedroom. Washing my face thoroughly made my skin feel fresh and tight.

I turned the hot water supply off and went to the linen closet to gather fresh towels I'd need when I got out of the tub. Wisps of steam rose from the bubbly surface of the water. I tested the temperature with my toes and found it to be perfect, then lowered my shapely butt sore body into the water. I was instantly surrounded by relaxing hot water and strawberry-scented bubbles. Every muscle in my body relaxed and began the recovery from an afternoon of being pulled and stretched. Of course, some internal muscles would have to recover independently over the next day or so. I sank into the hot, bubbly water, so only my head stuck out above the froth of pink strawberry fragrant bubbles.

With my eyes closed, I let my body relax and begin its recovery from the events of the past seventy-two hours. After several minutes, the hot, steamy water brought tiny beads of perspiration to my brow, and I slid back up a little so I could reach a towel and my wine glass. After patting my forehead with a fluffy hand towel, I sipped from my fluted wine glass. The cool liquid tasted wonderful and soothed the sore flesh in my mouth and throat.

Soothing bubbles clung to the soft skin on my breasts above my rather tender nipples, which remained submerged in the steamy hot water. My hands slowly massaged the tense muscles along my shapely legs, releasing the tension and the residue of lactic acid that had built up in the fibers.

Outside, the autumn sunset was aglow. Warm pink, red, and purple colors highlighted the evening sky, replacing the brightness of the annual change of colors in the woods below. I was in a perfect setting to allow myself to consider the options my life had presented the past few days.

Twenty-four hours from now, Barry would return from his weekend football fest with his zombie buddies to have our little talk he'd requested in the note he left me before dawn this morning. I figured the outcome of that talk would have some bearing on what path I'd choose with regard to Franklin's discrete business proposition.

I knew deep in my mind that I didn't want my marriage to end. We'd put too much effort into our relationship over the last fifteen years, and to be quite honest, except for the period during the year that action was hot and heavy on the gridiron, our marriage and sex life was pretty darn good. I would certainly expect a sincere apology from him for slapping me last night, and I'd be sure to let him know that a repeat of that would end our marriage instantly. I knew in my heart that his anger and the outburst about my shopping habits were brought on by the fact that he'd missed the ending of some silly football game that turned out to be historic.

Barry had never shown the least bit of concern with the amount of money I spent, which in my mind was little more than a speed bump in his six-digit salary. Lord knows he'd happily put out seventy-five hundred to add two cup sizes to my tits five years ago, giving his trophy wife the lovely 36D tits I now sported. I was sure that if our talk tomorrow night went well, this episode would soon be forgotten, and our lives would return to the status quo.

On the other hand, I thought if he didn't immediately apologize for striking me and leaving his finger imprint on my wrist or if he were going to continue making an issue of my spending habits, then perhaps divorce would be something I'd consider. I felt confident that if push came to shove, any divorce settlement would at least leave me with enough income to sustain my current lifestyle quite comfortably. Of course, I wouldn't have the trump card of children and child support to fall back on since he and I had decided not to have any kids.

While my soft, delicate hands continued soothing my sore body, I considered my other options. If I conceded that my spending had gone a little overboard recently, I could promise to do more window shopping instead of buying everything I thought I needed or liked on my frequent visits to the mall. A smile came to my lips, knowing window shopping just wasn't my cup of tea. Somehow, I'd have to augment the money Barry would give me as a shopping allowance.

That thought caused me to consider Franklin's discrete business proposal. Mother Nature's colorful end-of-the-day show had nearly faded completely. The only hint remaining was the pale sliver of light just above the horizon. Twinkling stars began to light up the night sky like a swarm of fireflies on a hot July night. I reached over the tub's edge and lifted the wine bottle, pouring myself a second glass of its sweet contents. My bath water was now little more than lukewarm, and the froth of bubbles had all but disappeared. I lifted my toes from the water to see if they had begun to wrinkle, which they had, but I was enjoying my soak and its effect on my tense, sore muscles.

I slid down and let my head and face slip below the water's surface, then tilted it back and smoothed my hair along my scalp as I sat back up. The cascade of water over my face felt good, and after patting the water from my eyes, I folded the hand towel into a pillow and placed it behind my head on the edge of the tub. I had nowhere to go and no one to see, so I decided to relax and soak until the water became too chilly for my skin. I took a sip from my wine and then placed the crystal glass back on the ledge of the tub.

As I gazed out the window at the twinkling stars in the night sky, I recalled Franklin's words. "I run a very lucrative discrete high-class escort service." Three words intrigued me most: lucrative and high class. I suppose in his mind and perhaps mine also, those words are what separate his business from that of a twenty-dollar street hooker standing on some dark corner waiting for her next trick.

Franklin had used all the politically correct words to describe his business, but when it came right down to it, he is nothing more than a big black pimp with a big black car and a stable of whores. No matter how classy you make her look, a whore is still a whore willing to spread her legs or drop to her knees for any man with enough cash to make it worthwhile. I smiled, knowing he thought me sexy enough to sign on as one of his escorts.

I tried to move my thoughts to other things, but I kept returning to the lucrative part of Franklin's proposal. He certainly was more than generous with his fifty-fifty split of the hourly charge for the services, and the ten percent commission on tips he asked his girls to pay was nothing in the big scheme of things. I suppose others in the same business reverse that and pay their girls the ten percent or give them a lot less than a fifty percent cut. So, I had no problem with his proposed pay scale.

Besides being illegal, the problem I had, was I wouldn't be choosing who I'd sleep with. I'd have little or no say in which cock I sucked or which got to fuck my hot box. If I did sign on with Franklin, I would immediately be indebted to him for the twenty-five hundred dollar advance he mentioned for new high-class clothing. Still, as I saw it, that would be five appointments, and if I couldn't stomach being one of his high-class escorts, I could end our agreement at that point, or so I hoped.

The upside to signing on with Franklin would be that I could capitulate to Barry and tell him I would be a good little trophy housewife from then on and let him keep my credit cards. There was one other huge benefit to becoming a high-class escort. I'd no longer have to sneak off to some beer-stinking sports bar to try and find some drunken stud to satisfy my growing lust for strange cock.

I decided to call him to clear up a few questions I had. My sexy toe lifted the lever on the tub drain, and I stood up and dried my body with a huge, fluffy white towel. My toes were wrinkly, but the rest of my body was smooth as silk and smelled like freshly picked strawberries. I wrapped the towel around my boobs, grabbed my wine and the half-full bottle, and scurried off to my bedroom, looking for my cell phone.

"Franklin speaking," his voice boomed as he answered my call.

"It's Margaret," I replied.

"I thought I recognized the number," he said. "What's up, baby? You want another round tonight?" he asked.

I giggled as I reclined on my bed and then said, "Oh no, one round with you is more than enough for one day."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Franklin replied.

I got to the point. "I was taking a bubble bath and thinking about your business proposal," I said.

"Yes," he answered, stretching the word as he spoke.

I thought he was expecting me to tell him and his proposal to take a hike.

"I have a couple of questions about the arrangement you have with your employees," I said.

Franklin chuckled and then said, "Ask away, Margaret."

I paused momentarily, thinking of the best way to pose my question.

"You still there?" he asked.

"Yes...yes... I wanted to ask if any of your new girls couldn't handle their appointments?" I asked, knowing my question wasn't clearly stated.

"You mean, were they late?" Franklin asked.

I figured, why beat around the bush? "No, I meant, what if they couldn't handle the sex for tips part," I said.

"Yes, and she repaid the final installment of her advance just a couple of weeks ago with interest," Franklin said.

"Interest?" I asked.

"I do expect a return on my investment," Franklin remarked.

"I suppose you should," I said, then asked another question. "How long does it take from when one of your girls signs on until her first appointment?"

"Maybe a week, no more than two. I have to get her into the photographer for pictures, then show them to some of my clients," Franklin explained.

"Okay," I said. I wanted to know how much his girls were making on tips, which we hadn't discussed earlier, so I asked. "If I sign on, realistically, what can I expect to make on tips?"

"I really can't say exactly, but I can tell you that last month, my commission from the girls was fifty-five hundred," he offered.

"Franklin, that's ten grand a month in tips," I exclaimed.

"On average, yes. A couple of my girls have five or six appointments a week, but you can realistically expect between five hundred and a grand per appointment depending on how happy the client is," Franklin said, trying not to be too specific.

"And don't forget tips are all cash and tax-free," he added. I did a little more quick math in my head. "Let me get this straight. If a girl had two appointments a week and made fourteen hundred in tips, we're looking at over a hundred grand a year. Is my math right?" I asked.

Franklin chuckled again, realizing the numbers finally dawned on me. "Margaret, my best girl made almost a quarter million last year," he admitted.

"Holy shit," I exclaimed.

"Why do you think I told you it is a very lucrative business proposition I'm offering?" he said.

"And you think some of your clients would want to date a thirty-eight-year-old women like me?" I asked.

His boisterous laugh pretty much answered my question, but he said. "First of all, Margaret never refer to an appointment as a date. These are strictly business appointments. As far as our clients wanting appointments with you, many of my clients are sixty years plus. They are not interested in a twenty-year-old who knows nothing. I can guarantee your appointment calendar will be booked as solid as you want."

"Okay, okay, I think I'm convinced," I said. "But I have one more question."

"What's that, Margaret?" Franklin said.

"What about the cops? Have any of your girls ever been arrested?" I asked.

He laughed again and then explained. "The mayor is a client, the DA is a client, and even the fucking police chief is a client of mine. What do you think?"

"Well, you certainly seem to have all the bases covered," I remarked.

Franklin didn't respond immediately, I assumed, giving me a little pause to think.

But before he could speak, I continued my questions, which seemed to pop up in my head relatively fast. "Do I get to meet your other girls?"

"Never," he replied with one word.

"If you're really interested, I can give you the internet address of a private chat room where I can upload pictures of them, but my employees never meet each other," he explained.

I assumed this would be an opportunity to get a first-hand look at what he considers a high-class escort, and I agreed to log into his chat room. After all, I had nothing to do for the rest of the evening.

"Okay, the URL is w w w dot elegant escorts dot net. When the home page opens, click on the link for private chat. I'll invite you into the room as a guest. You got that? he asked.

"Got it," I replied.

"After we've chatted, you can call me back," Franklin said.

"Okay, give me a few minutes to plug in my laptop and start it up," I explained.

Before he hung up, he said, "Hope you're good with computers, Margaret. Everything is handled in private chat and via email."

"I'm okay. See you in a few minutes online." I said as we hung up.

The laptop Barry had bought me a couple of years ago was stored in the closet in the leather carrying case he got as an accessory. I had to plug in the charger and wait for a moment until it started up. Sitting cross-legged on my bed naked as a jaybird with a stack of pillows behind my back, I clicked on the World Wide Web icon on the screen.

A window opened, but I had no idea where to type in the address Franklin had given me. I finally realized that if I clicked in the box with a WWW initially, I could backspace and type anything I wanted.

I typed in the information, then hit enter. A strange box opened that said Can not find the address. "What the fuck?" I said out loud.

I studied the address and then noticed I'd mistakenly put a space between the words elegant and escort. Backspacing the error out, I again tapped enter, and the web page opened.

It was artfully done with only some basic information. There were links across the top for several options, one of which said Mission Statement. I laughed and made a mental note to click that and read the bull shit on that page. The last link at the right said Private Chat.

I clicked on the link, and another page opened. At the bottom, there were two options. One said members join the chat, and the other guests join. I clicked on the link, and a chat window opened in the middle of the screen. The first line in the chat window said. "Waiting for an Invitation." I sat and waited.

Only a few seconds passed when the message "Big Daddy has invited you to a private chat."

Immediately after that, Peggy appeared on the next line.

I typed, "Yes."

The next message from Big Daddy asked. "Who established the U.S. Post Office."

That seemed strange until I recalled my U.S. History in grade school. Ben Franklin started the post office.

"Franklin," I typed.

A smiling face appeared, then the words "Hi Margaret."

In his own subtle way, Franklin confirmed I was who I said I was.

"Hi, Big Daddy," I typed.

I could see how this chat could be fun, and I waited for his next line of text.

"Let me show you some photos first, then we'll chat," he typed.

"Sounds good," I replied, happy that my typing skills remained intact.

A smaller window appeared inside the chat box that said. "Big Daddy is sending you a file. There were two options: "Accept and Decline."

I clicked on the accept option. The little window got bigger, and a headshot photo of a beautiful woman appeared. She was probably twenty-five years old and had long, straight, blond hair. Her blue eyes sparkled wonderfully in the picture, and it seemed she wore only a clear lip gloss. Her complexion was fair, and she had the faintest sign of freckles on her cheeks.

Big Daddy's next message said, "This is Tina.

I replied, "She is gorgeous!"

"Besides being an incredible escort, polished and refined, her specialty is schoolgirl role play." Big Daddy explained.

"I'm not surprised," I typed.

"Click the 'x' in the corner of the photo box," Big Daddy wrote.

The window closed when I clicked the 'x,' but as soon as it did, another small window opened. I was catching on quickly and clicked the accept option.

It was Tina again, this time dressed in schoolgirl clothes. A short flowing skirt and white blouse with knee-high stockings and pattern leather flat catholic girl shoes.

"That's some outfit," I remarked.

"A favorite of more than a few clients," Big Daddy replied.

"Here's another of my girls," he typed.

I closed the photo window and clicked on the accept option again.

A photo of a beautiful black woman opened. Her hair was braided tight to her scalp. She had a milk chocolate complexion and very high cheekbones. Her lush, full lips were covered with mother-of-pearl lip gloss.

"Samantha," Big Daddy typed.

"And her specialty?" I asked.

"Look at the next photo," Daddy replied.

I closed one and opened the next. Samantha was standing with her back to the camera. Her long, flowing hair extended nearly to her waist. She was wearing the tiniest satin shorts I'd ever seen, which accentuated her very well-rounded butt. A booty that would make even Beyonce jealous.

I closed the window and typed, "Let me guess, anal?"

"Bingo," Daddy typed.

Over the next ten minutes, Big Daddy showed me photos of his other three employees. All are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, each with a unique talent to offer their clients.

"All of them are so beautiful I'm not sure I can meet those standards," I typed.

"My photographer is incredibly talented. I guarantee he'll be having you not only meet but exceed the standards for my girls," Big Daddy said.

"And my specialty would be?" I asked.

"You demonstrated your special talent this afternoon," he replied.

So he wanted me to be his cock sucking specialist. I certainly fit the bill, but I wasn't sure I wanted to escort his clients and then, in private, drop to my knees and suck their cocks.

"I do have other talents," I said.

"All my employees have many talents, and not every client wants just the specialty," he answered.

"If I agree to sign on, have you considered my name?" I asked.

"You have the final say, but I was thinking of Angel," he typed.

"I like that," I answered

"So, Angel, are you ready to sign on?" he asked.

There were a thousand reasons for me to say no, and reason number one would be walking through the front door tomorrow night.

If even a whisper of this kind of activity got out and the partners found out, Barry would be out on his ear instantly.

But there were many reasons to say yes, most of them paper with ex-presidents pictures on them. And I felt Big Daddy, as I'll always call him from now on, had nearly every base covered. He'd undoubtedly shown me that Elegant Escorts was a very high-class business.

I moved my right index finger toward the "Y" key just as another message opened in the chat window.

"Tell ya what, Angel. You think about my offer as long as you need to. There's a Contact Us link on the home page, which will open an email message box. Type Angel in the subject line, then type yes or no in the message box and I'll know your answer. If it's NO, I won't ever contact you again. If it's YES, add your email address, and I'll send you the info on where and when you'll see my photographer. Fair enough?" Daddy typed.

"Fair enough," I replied

The chat window went blank as Big Daddy closed it from his end.

I clicked on the home page link and was taken back to the original screen. I took the time to read Elegant Escort's mission statement by clicking on that link.

A similar window opened, but this one only contained the statement. It read.

"To provide businessmen and gentlemen in the tri-state region companionship for formal dinners, banquets, and conventions with polished and talented female escorts at affordable rates."

I pushed the laptop away and stared at the screen, reading over and over the words polished and talented female escort. My mind raced with all kinds of thoughts. If I could work for Big Daddy for seven years until I turned forty-five, I may very well be able to stash away three-quarters of a million dollars. More than enough money so that if Barry and I did split up, I could retire and live comfortably from then on.

But seven years is a long time, and three-quarters of a million dollars is a lot of appointments. I'd endured twice that being the woman on Barry's arm, and for the last five years, I was the big-titted babe on his arm.

Perhaps it was time for me to be more than a decoration on his arm and use his investment for my gain. I need one more thought to convince me to accept Big Daddy's offer. One more factor would cause me to type YES in the Contact Us box. And that factor was something I've had in the back of my mind since the start of football season nearly three months ago. I'd developed an insatiable desire and incredible craving, an absolute lust for strange cock. That development offset every other factor, and I think deep in my mind I'd know all along that I'd be sending Big Daddy the YES reply.

I opened the Contact Us link and typed Angel into the subject line. Moving my cursor down to the message box, I quickly typed YES and typed in my email address. The mouse moved to the send button, and I hesitated as the ultimate moment of truth had arrived. My hand trembled, and my heart raced. I knew when I clicked on the send button, my fate would be sealed. From that moment, the wheels would be set in motion to change me from Margaret, the trophy wife, to Angel, the high-class expensive hooker.

My only fear was that I'd eventually become Angel, the common whore. I was already a whore to my insatiable desire for cock, and I knew that if I changed my message from YES to NO, I would continue being a whore to my desire, a whore to my craving, a common cock slut seeking my next fix of throbbing cock. My finger pressed the mouse, then released it, sending my YES message to Big Daddy and sealing my fate.

I closed the laptop and sat there staring at the wall across the room. Tears began cascading down my cheeks, knowing I'd just agreed to let Big Daddy use my body for his own financial gain. I willed my tears to stop, and I thought had I not agreed, I would have let him use my body for his physical pleasure anytime he asked. At least I would be sharing that financial gain and I was determined to make him earn his cut.

Sleep was something that I knew would not come easily that night. My mind raced with thoughts of not only the process of turning me into Angel but the thoughts of my first appointment. Would I crumble under my fear at the very last moment, or would I revel in my newfound sexual freedom and bestow unmeasurable pleasures on my first client? I suspected the latter would come to pass.

Sometime near dawn, my mind and body finally gave in to the need for sleep, but it was a restless sleep, the first of many until I would finally become Angel and meet my first client.

It was nearly three thirty when I finally woke. I slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt and grabbed my laptop, heading for the kitchen for something to drink. Most of my muscles had recovered from the exploits of yesterday with my new boss, Big Daddy.

I opened the refrigerator and reached for the orange juice but changed my mind, knowing the acid in orange juice would do little more than irritate my already sore throat. God, his cock was so fucking big, I thought as I sipped on a glass of cool milk.

I checked my email and had nothing from Daddy. "oh well." I said as I flipped the computer closed. He'll email me when there is something to email me about, I thought.

I puttered around the house, doing some laundry and cleaning the place. I found my damaged purse where I'd left it, took it to the kitchen, and dumped the contents on the counter. Sorting through that pile, I returned many things that weren't needed to the purse, including Franklin's business card. The whole thing was tossed in the trash. I was sure a suitable replacement was waiting upstairs in my closet.

I decided to call Sam and end our affair.

Dialing his cell number, I knew I was about to lie to him about why I couldn't see him again.

"Hello," He said after the third ring.

"Hi Sam, it's Margaret," I replied.

"Hi baby, what's up?" he said.

"Sam, I'm afraid I have some bad news," I said.

"Oh, no," he said.

"I can't see you anymore," I told him.

"Can I ask why?" he asked.

Time to lie, I thought. "I've decided to try and patch things up with Barry," I said, knowing he knew that was a lie.

"I should have known this would happen eventually, but after the other day, I thought we'd be together for at least a little longer," Sam offered.

Lying is easy, and I suspected I would become much better at it in the coming months.

"I wanted to tell you this the other day but didn't have the nerve after we fucked," I said.

His tone of voice became stern as he replied. "Yeah, right. If you had wanted to tell me, you could have on the phone when you asked to see me."

"I'm sorry, Sam, I just can't see you anymore, okay," I said again.

"Whatever, as far as I'm concerned, Margaret, you can just go fuck yourself," he said, then hung up on me.

I hated myself for lying to him. I'm sure Sam now hated me also.

I didn't even bother to contact Mark since the only time we got together was when I called him for a Monday night lay. I figured he'd just assume I moved on to a bigger and better cock.

Barry would be arriving home shortly, and I hoped I'd handle my lies to him better than I had with Sam. While I waited, I rechecked my email—still nothing from Big Daddy.

I thought about going upstairs and showering, then putting on something more attractive, but decided why bother. I was sitting at the kitchen table when I heard a car door close outside, then the sound of a horn as the vehicle drove off. Barry was home, and in a minute or two, he'd probably want to have our little talk.

The front door opened, then closed, and I glanced down the hall to the foyer. Barry dropped his overnight bag on the floor at the steps and walked toward me.

"How was your weekend?" I asked.

"It sucked. State lost, and today's games were blowouts. I should have stayed home," he replied.

"I found your note yesterday morning," I said, wanting to feel him out about our talk.

Barry went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of ice water, then sat down across from me. "Peg, I need to tell you something," he said.

I looked at him, expecting to hear an apology for slapping me Friday night.

His expression didn't appear to be apologetic; in fact, if I had to describe the expression on his face, I'd have to call it guilty.

"I..." He paused as the words stuck in his craw. "Peg, I've been having an affair with Connie for the last eight months."

"You fucking bastard!" I nearly screamed, tears instantly cascading down my cheeks.

"We've fallen in love and want to get married. So I'm asking you for a divorce," Barry said in a soft, almost inaudible voice.

"You mother fucking bastard!" I screamed, louder this time.

"I'll give you whatever you want, Margaret," he said.

"You'll give me everything, you son of a bitch," I screamed again, standing up from the table.

"Please, baby," he said.

"Don't fucking please baby me," I shouted at him.

He didn't reply; his sorrowful eyes just stared at me as I stood over him.

"I've been eating that fucking whore's table scraps for the last nine months, and you have the nerve to treat me the way you did the other night. I should have called the cops and had them haul your sorry cheatin' fucking ass off to jail then while the welts were still fresh on my cheek. You and your fuckin slut can fuck off " I screamed as tears poured from my eyes.

"Margaret," he said, but I cut him off.

"Don't even say my name, you S O B!" I snapped back.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

I laughed through my tears at his stupid question. "Do I want you to leave? You're fuckin right I want you to leave. Take your bag and go sleep with your little slut," I demanded.

Barry got up from his seat and slowly walked toward the foyer. As he passed me, he tried to touch me. I slapped his hand away. "Don't even think about ever touching me again," I warned him.

I moved to lean against the counter, wiping my tears with a tissue as he walked back through the kitchen toward the garage.

"I'll call you," he said, almost as a question.

"Don't bother I won't answer. I'll have my attorney call you," I said.

In a moment, he disappeared into the garage. I heard the overhead door go up and back down, and I was alone. Sitting back down, I cried uncontrollably, sobbing and choking on my tears. I was devastated that he had been cheating on me, but some of my tears were the result of my cheating on him, also.

How had our life come to this? We were totally in love for fifteen years, happy in every part of our life together. I'd always done everything he'd asked, from the public to the private setting of our bedroom. I knew it wasn't the sex. Along with being the perfect trophy wife, I was his little cock slut in the bedroom, giving him every part of me whenever he asked.

For now, my tears had begun to subside, and as I gathered my thoughts, I quickly came to the realization that I would be alone for the foreseeable future. I'd just lost my husband of fifteen years to that cheatin' tramp, Connie. That was compounded by the fact that not three hours earlier, I'd agreed to become nothing more than a thousand-dollar-a-night prostitute. I never felt more alone in my entire life.

I checked to ensure all the doors were locked, then turned off the lights and walked slowly up the stairs to my bedroom. The light was on in the master bath. My reflection in the large vanity mirror scared me. My hair looked unkept with no makeup, my skin looked old and wrinkled, and my eyes, bloodshot red and very puffy, stared back at me. I knew the puffy red condition would fade, but I doubted that the lonely look suddenly there would ever go away.

Curling up in a near fetal position on the bed, I pulled his pillow down and drew it to my body. I'd miss cuddling with a man who loved me, most likely until my dying day.

I lay there watching the minutes pass on the alarm clock. Occasionally, the numbers blurred by more tears. Finally, my body and mind succumbed to physical and mental exhaustion, the red numbers on the clock fading to black.

I was jolted from a restless sleep by a horrible nightmare. As I sat up in bed sweating profusely, I recalled the details.

I was lying in a dingy motel room on a bare, stained mattress. An old man, a fat, sweaty, stinking old man, stood over me. His limp wrinkled cock hung flaccid at his loins, still glistening with the juices from my cunt. He stretched out his hand, which held a crumbled twenty-dollar bill. I reached for it and saw my hands gnarly and wrinkled with horrible liver spots nearly covering every inch, my knuckles swollen with painful arthritis. As I took the bill from him, he said, "You're only worth half of that."

My god, is that where I'm headed?" I thought.

I checked my hands. They were still as smooth and delicate as they had always been. My breasts still rode high on my chest, and the nipples were still as supple and sensuous. My long, shapely legs still as shapely as always. As I sat there in the darkness, a smile came to my lips. It was only a horrible nightmare, one that, if I played my cards right, would never come to pass.

My alarm clock read four forty-five. I was awake, so I decided to check my email. After my laptop started, I clicked the icon for my email account. After typing in my password, a cheerful male voice said. "You've got mail."

Clicking on the in-box icon, it opened, revealing one email. It was from Big Daddy.

The subject line read. "Welcome Aboard Angel"

Below, Daddy wrote. "Glad to receive your YES message. To start, I need to get your wardrobe allowance to you. Please pick a time and place convenient for you so I can make that delivery. I have arranged for you to meet our photographer on Tuesday afternoon at one o'clock. His studio is located at 3408 Upland Road in the Hills section of town.

"Attached, you will find a calendar program that will be helpful in tracking when your appointments are scheduled. Also, let me know what days of the month you are available for scheduling appointments. Please download this program, then using an "A" for available or a "U" for unavailable, mark the days of the next week that you would be available for appointments. If you are available after a certain time, please indicate that time next to the A in the date box. I need to have your calendar by Saturday morning so that I can schedule appointments starting on Monday.

"You will receive an email at least twenty-four hours before any scheduled appointment. Once scheduled, appointments can not be canceled for any reason except severe illness. When submitting your weekly available days, I also would ask that you mark the previous week's appointments with a "T" and the tip amount, if any, you received for that appointment. This is how I track my commission on your tips, which will be deducted from the payment I make for the appointment.

"I meet with my employees on Monday mornings at a prearranged place to issue pay envelopes, so once we get you set up and start scheduling appointments, you will have to advise me of a convenient place for that exchange to take place. Appointment charges are by the full hour, so if you attend an appointment that lasts two and one-half hours, you will be compensated for two hours. This is an incentive to have you extend your appointments to the full hour. Time spent earning tips is not compensated by Elegant Escorts. On those rare occasions when an appointment is arranged for a full day, your compensation will be a flat 2500.00 dollars.

"Should you have any questions, please include them in your reply. Elegant Escorts uses an encrypted email system, so this is the only way you will contact the office. At no time are you to telephone the office for any reason. Welcome Aboard Angel. I'm confident you will enjoy working for Elegant Escorts, and it will prove lucrative for us both."

I re-read the email to ensure I got all the details straight in my head. I downloaded the calendar program and clicked yes when asked if I wanted an icon placed on my desktop.

Carrying the computer downstairs, I started brewing a pot of coffee. As I poured the water into the coffeemaker, I stopped when it was half full. I smiled, realizing I was brewing coffee for one instead of two. This was the first of many changes I was sure to discover.

I felt hungry, so I toasted a bagel and spread cream cheese on its crispy surface. With a cup of freshly brewed coffee and a tasty bagel, I sat at the kitchen table and clicked on the calendar icon on my desktop.

The program opened instantly with the current month showing. Today was Monday the thirteenth, and I would see the photographer on Tuesday, so I typed in the time of my appointment and PIC to remind me of that non-paying appointment. I used the arrow keys to move the flashing cursor across the remainder of the week. Starting with Wednesday the fifteenth, I typed the letter A in every box for the remainder of the week and the following week as well. I clicked the save icon at the top of the page, and a box opened asking Save As. Since I'd be submitting my availability calendar on Saturdays, I saved this one as 91110 to a new folder titled EEAPT for Elegant Escorts Appointments. To be safe, I protected the file and entered a password I'd be sure to remember.

While I nibbled on my bagel and sipped my hot coffee, I played with the program a little. I discovered that if I double-clicked on a date box, a new screen opened where details of the day's events could be entered. Since it didn't appear that this would be sent off to the office, I decided this would be an excellent place to record each appointment, the length of the appointment, and any other details I may want to save as a reminder for repeat clients. It would also be an excellent place to keep track of my income from my new job. Closing the program without saving the revisions I had made while playing around with its other features.

I maximized Daddy's email and clicked reply.

In the subject line, I typed. Anxious to Start.

In the body, I typed. "Thank you for your email, Big Daddy. If possible, can we meet at one-thirty this afternoon outside the west entrance at Redhill Mall so I can take delivery of the wardrobe allowance?"

I figured my allowance would be spent almost exclusively at the mall, and by meeting early this afternoon, I could spend some time shopping for some new elegant clothing.

I continued. "The calendar program works wonderfully, and I've attached my first one for your review and use. You will notice my availability has changed, and the reason is that hubby and I split up last night, so I won't be limited to accepting assignments for appointments to just the times we discussed earlier. I do have one question concerning full-day appointments. Is there a possibility that appointments for more than a full day could be arranged? And if so, would you advise that I arrange an up-to-date passport?"

I wanted Daddy to know that if the need ever arose for an escort to accompany a client overseas, I'd be available.

"Thank you again for your employment offer, and I anxiously await your reply concerning our brief meeting this afternoon."

I spaced down a line or two, then signed the email. "Elegantly Yours Angel"

I clicked the attach file icon in the toolbar and found my newly created folder, EEAPT. Double-clicking on the 91110 file, it was instantly added as an attachment.

I took the time to proofread my email to Daddy and then clicked the send button.

A small box indicated the email had been encrypted and sent with priority delivery instructions.

That all seemed easy enough. I hoped my calendar would soon be filled with appointments and that I'd be reporting healthy tips to Big Daddy each week.

I freshened up my coffee and, grabbing my laptop, headed back upstairs, filled with anxious anticipation of getting started in my new, thanks to my bastard husband, full-time job.

I opened my laptop and placed it on my dressing table. If or when Daddy replied about our meeting later today, I would hear the new mail alert from my mail program running in the background.

The early morning light before sunrise had begun to brighten the sky, and I decided I'd spend some time going through my wardrobe, looking for appropriate clothing to wear for work. After all, I'd spent a lot of time and his money filling my rather sizeable walk-in closet, and I knew many outfits would fit the bill perfectly.

I started with black cocktail dresses. There were a dozen or so hanging neatly next to one another. I eliminated six or seven that were either too old or way too conservative for even a classy escort to wear.

My favorite was a clingy little number with a cowl neckline instead of the usual plunging vee. This one left a little to the imagination, but if the opportunity presented itself, I could lean forward, and the cowl would hang open, giving the viewer a quick look down at my creamy cleavage. I recalled wearing it to a political fundraiser that Barry had forced me to attend when he was considering running for public office. As I recall, I leaned forward more than a few times that evening giving the greasy politicians I was being introduced to a spectacular view of my lovely tits. I moved that one to the front of the line.

As I started looking through my evening gown collection, I heard a car door close out front. I dashed to the window and saw Barry's E-Class parked in the driveway. In a moment, the front door opened.

"Margaret, are you up?" he shouted from the foyer.

I closed my laptop and threw a towel over it, then walked to the stairs.

"I'm up," I said as he appeared at the bottom.

"I need to get a few things," he said as he started up the stairs.

I moved to block his path, keeping one hand on the railing and placing the other on the wall. "I expect a call first the next time you need something. That way, I can be out of the house," I said very bluntly.

"I'll try to keep that in mind," he replied his tone of voice nowhere near as sorrowful as last night.

I moved aside and let him pass, thinking his statement probably reflected a long talk he'd had with Connie during the night.

As Barry went into the bedroom, I followed to make sure he didn't touch anything that wasn't his own very personal belongings. As the offended spouse in this pending divorce action, I was going to claim everything that he couldn't wear on his cheating back.

Barry flipped a suitcase open on the bed and began filling it with some of his clothes. He glanced at me and then said rather harshly. "You look like shit, Peg."

That pissed me off, and I shot back, "Well fuck you too. I was up half the night crying my eyes out. I'm sure you ran off to your slut's bedroom and got your cock sucked, then fell asleep."

He straightened up and turned toward me. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I did," Barry said.

I became even angrier and replied. "Make sure you tell that slut to get used to it. I wish I had a dime for every time I sucked you off, and then you fell asleep. I could retire on those fucking dimes."

"Just let me get my stuff and get the fuck outta here," he said, no longer folding items but rather just stuffing them in the suitcase.

"I'll have your house key, please?" I asked or demanded.

"Fuck you!" Barry shot back.

"You never will again," I quickly replied.

Mental note to Margaret—call a locksmith and have the locks changed. I thought.

Barry zipped the suitcase closed and then picked it up off the bed. As he walked past me, he said. "I'll call later in the week to get the rest of my things. That way, you won't be here, and I won't have to look at your sorry-ass face again."

I resisted the urge to slap him; instead, I remained motionless until I heard the front door close.

This divorce was going to get very ugly, and along with the mental note about the locks, I made another to find an attorney who was up to the challenge of taking everything we could from the bastard who'd just insulted me.

Hopefully, I'd only have to see him in court from that point forward.

I wasn't in the mood to look through any more of my clothes, so I turned off the closet light and closed the door. Grabbing my laptop, I returned to the kitchen for a refill on my coffee.

With coffee in hand, I sat at the table and opened my laptop again. That cheerful male voice announced. "You've got mail." Big Daddy had already replied.

His message read. "1:30 at Redhill Mall will be fine."

Unlike his earlier email, when he went over the nuts and bolts of how Elegant Escorts handled the day-to-day details of his lucrative business, this email was short and to the point, which I assumed most of his emails in the future would also be.

I spent the rest of the morning puttering around the house, collecting as many things that would remind me of the son of a bitch who'd dumped me for his office tramp. When I finished, eight boxes were piled up in the garage where he usually parked his E-Class. Getting him out of my mind and my life seemed at the time to be the utmost of priorities.

At about twelve, I headed up to change my clothes and put on makeup for my meeting with Daddy.

As I fingered some styling gel through my short auburn locks, I wondered what I'd look like as a blonde. Teasing it kind of spiky, I pulled a few strands down in front of my ears and forehead. A quick coat of clear lip gloss and just a hint of mascara were all I needed for a meeting with my boss.

I slipped my long, shapely legs into a pair of tailored black slacks, then tucked a white silk blouse into the waistline. A matching vest buttoned completely closed finished off my conservative look for our meeting.

I kept the top up on the Benz, not wanting to draw attention to myself or the man I was meeting, and parked the car far enough from other cars so he could spot me when he arrived.

Promptly at one thirty, his black Chrysler turned into the lot. He pulled alongside my Benz driver's window, and we faced each other. Our windows glided, and I said, "Hiya, Franklin."

He didn't look toward me but said, "C'm'ere, Angel."

I opened my door and walked across the space between our cars.

He kept his head facing front and said quite sternly. "Call me Daddy or call me Big, but never call me by my real name again.

"Sorry, Daddy," I instantly replied, "I'll remember next time," I quickly added.

He held an envelope in the window, and I took it from him. "Don't be late tomorrow for your pictures," he said, still not looking at me.

"I won't, Daddy," I said.

With that, his window closed and gunned the car off toward the exit from the parking lot.

As I got back in my car and placed the envelope on my lap, I thought. He was certainly kind of cold. A far cry from the way he was only a few days ago when I was his hot little MILF cock sucker. But I assumed that I was now just another of his employees; perhaps his cold attitude had something to do with not wanting to break his rule about not fucking his girls.

I opened the envelope and removed the contents. It held five crisp five hundred-dollar bills with a neatly folded piece of paper surrounding them. A typewritten message on the paper read.

Angel: As you shop for your wardrobe, please remember that we are Elegant Escorts. Our clients want ladies who dress classy, so don't let me hear that you showed up for an appointment looking like a slut. You'll need at least two outfits—evening gown, cocktail dress, business suit, either pants or skirt, casual and swimwear. I've already sent emails to several clients letting them know we've added a new escort to our service, and I anticipate that by Thursday, I'll have your first appointment scheduled. Remember, we are Elegant Escorts, and our clients expect nothing less.

"Wow," I said to myself. Daddy wasn't wasting any time getting me into the business. I assumed that was so any second thoughts I may have wouldn't come into play. Besides, with my wardrobe advance in hand, his interest clock was already running.