Is it really flashing if nobody sees?

That was the question. Her husband had seen, of course, on drives in the country; Greg aiming his camera at her as she bared the body he was so familiar with, and that she was so familiar with showing him. They’d look at the pictures later, of her posing against a tree trunk with her skirt pulled up, or leaning back against the car with erect nipples teasing the tops of bra cups. On occasion she’d even played with herself, Greg shooting footage until he could no longer control himself and stood over her tugging his stiff cock before taking more pictures, of her half-dressed and with his emission dribbling down her body.

But did it really count? Wasn’t the whole idea of flashing that complete strangers saw you? They’d discussed the issue with all the earnestness of scholars debating Kant’s categorical imperative. She knew she was right. It wasn’t really flashing if only her husband saw. Greg refused to accept this, but she beat him down. She had logic on her side, remorseless logic.

And now here she was, under the colonnade. They’d chosen it because not many people passed this way, at least not after midnight in the middle of the week. She’d been pacing back and forth for what felt like an age, just waiting for the right moment. Waiting to take the plunge.

For the umpteenth time, she regarded herself in a shop window. This time she stood in front of the pharmacy. There wasn’t a window display as such, but big posters advertised up to half price on selected items. Her focus wasn’t on the shelves inside, with their ointments, potions and supplements; it was on her own reflection. She’d let Greg choose the outfit; ankle boots with four inch heels, black nylons. If she were to find the nerve to lift the glossy black skirt that came down to half thigh, anyone watching would see the nylons were stockings paired with suspenders, and possibly get a good view of her depilated mound. Above she was wearing a purple top so tight it felt like it was clutching her breasts with the fervour of a dirty old man. As with the skirt, all it would take was a quick hitch to reveal the absence of an undergarment.

At the sound of a car, she turned. Greg was back. What the pair of them hadn’t considered beforehand was that in order to park up next to where his wife was to bare all, Greg would have to hold in the bus lane. This meant that whenever a night bus or a suspected police car showed up in his rear view mirror, her husband would take a trip round the block.

As he pulled up to the kerb, she moved towards the car. The window slid down. Maybe they should just call it a night, accept that they’d tried and failed. But she didn’t want to pour cold water on the adventure entirely. She put her head in the window, her hand on the hem of her skirt. “Fancy a peak?”

But her husband shook his head. “It’s not really flashing if nobody else sees, is it?”

She’d been keener than him all along and he was rubbing it in. She felt stupid now. There’d been chances; five of them. She’d bottled it every time. “I know. I thought…”

Greg was giving her a look. He may have his reservations, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook. It was almost like a punishment.

She turned away from the car, back to the shop window, nerves increasing in proportion to her distance from the safety of the vehicle. Greg being in a grump bothered her, but it was she who had more or less forced this through, and she could always give him something to hopefully improve his mood. Her hand returned to her skirt, pulling at the side, just enough to show some stocking top. It felt more daring than anything she had previously done, though really it was nothing. She studied her reflection again. Yes, she looked hot; no doubt about it. She was sure Greg thought so too, regardless of his bad humour. After all, he’d chosen the outfit for her. Maybe it brought back memories for him, of the pair of them out in the middle of nowhere.

All was silence. It seemed unnatural for a big city to be so silent. Still, at least she was alone, with Greg. Perhaps she could, knowing that it was just the two of them. It would be something, even if it wasn’t flashing, understood as an action observed by a stranger. Using both hands she pulled her skirt up at the back. She did it slowly, comforted by the deafening silence, pleased to be doing something for the husband she’d dragged into an adventure she herself was now having second thoughts about.

Once her skirt was up, something gave. It wasn’t so bad after all. If it wasn’t quite the thrill she’d imagined, she was at least finally showing something, and whatever her crazy idea about strangers seeing her, she adored knowing her husband’s eyes were on her. Holding the garment up, she allowed herself to sway a little from side to side.

She had no idea where the man had come from, but suddenly his reflection was there, in the plate glass, directly behind her. When his hand touched her bottom some jamming mechanism between legs and brain blocked the signals urging her to move. “Are you selling?” he asked.

“Selling?” she said weakly, registering a faint scent of alcohol.

“I’ll settle for sex if you’re out of crack cocaine.”

“What?” She remained paralyzed, still baring her arse. The stranger still had his hand there.

“A joke,” he said. “At least the crack cocaine part.”

“I… I… I…”

“Been on the game long?”

“No. I mean, I’m not…”

“Well you’re doing a very good impression of a prossy.”

His hand came away, but she still couldn’t move. There she stood, holding her skirt up. And what the hell was it with Greg? Why wasn’t he intervening? “My husband…”

“Pimps you out, does he?”

“No! No, of course not!” The suggestion made her go hot all over. Maybe that’s what caused her brain to unfreeze. She let the skirt fall back into place, turning to face the stranger, not quite able to make out Greg’s face where he remained motionless in the car.

“No matter. I’d happily pay you, whatever the circumstances.”

She was stunned by the man’s brass neck. All the same, he wasn’t bad looking. Tousled dark hair, a jaw ripped from an antique sculpture, a gaze steady enough to contradict his breath, a suit which looked as expensive as it did casual. In another life, perhaps. Not in this one, and certainly not with the husband she’d practically brow-beaten into this stupid situation sitting in the car watching. “Look, Mr…”

“You can call me Mr Smith.” His face changed, betraying a lupine hunger. “Just name your price.”

Behind her the car started, and as it did she heard the sound of another vehicle. Her knees turned to jelly as Greg pulled away, leaving her alone with the stranger. This was nuts, the very definition of insane. “It’s impossible,” she said.

“But you want to.”

His presumption caused her to recover some sense of self-respect. “What have I said that might have given you such an idea?”

A bus rumbled past. Mr Smith was staring at her as if he knew it was only a matter of time. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t have a price,” he said.

“You insufferable…!” No, she shouldn’t antagonize him, the situation was precarious enough as it was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“One hundred pounds.”

The brazen proposal knocked her off balance. “Are you for real?” she asked, before she’d had time to regain her senses. “A hundred pounds for what?”

Mr Smith smiled. “For whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“What if I don’t feel comfortable with anything?”

The stranger regarded her as if she was merely playing hard to get. “Let’s try this again,” he said. “How much would it cost me to fondle your breasts?”

She could feel her jaw drop. “Nothing,” she said.

“You’d let me do it for free?” That wasn’t what she’d meant to say. What she’d meant to say was that no amount of money would persuade her. Before she could clarify, the man was smiling, teeth just a shade too white. “A little taster. I like that.”

“I…”

Before any more words came over her lips, the man had a hand on her top, squeezing. “Nice!” he said. “Definitely gives a man a taste for more. Do you want to flash me those beauties, or will it cost me?”

He was still touching her. Where the hell was Greg? How long exactly did it take to drive round the block?

“Really,” she said. “You’ve got me all wrong.”

At least that made the man pull his hand away. “Two hundred pounds,” he said. “To touch you.”

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but aren’t you doing that already?” Greg, where the hell are you?

“What I mean is two hundred pounds to touch you everywhere. Anywhere I like.”

“Everywhere?” Why was she even asking?

“Naked tits, cunt, the lot.”

As if she wasn’t shocked enough already this new display of vulgarity struck her fiercely. He was willing to pay to grope her like some common tart. The shock jolted her mind into action; she knew how to get rid of him. “Three hundred,” she said. “And I want it in cash.”

“Cash? Ever heard of mobile payment?”

She stood her ground. “It’s cash or nothing.”

“Very well,” the man grumbled. His mobile was out. A few taps later he seemed to perk up again. “There’s an ATM just round the corner,” he announced. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She watched him cross the road and head along the street, hardly able to stand still for wanting her husband to return. It seemed to take forever. She very much feared that Mr Smith might have time to return when she finally saw the car approaching. In a flash she was kerbside. Before Greg had pulled up she’d opened the door and thrown herself into the passenger seat. “What’s the rush?” her husband asked.

“That man,” she said.

“What about him?”

“Just drive.”

Greg turned the engine off.

“Drive!” She thought she sounded hysterical, perhaps Greg did too. If so, he wasn’t too put out about it.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on?”

“He’s gone for money,” she breathed. “He wants to pay me money to touch me!”

“And you agreed?”

“No! It was my way of getting rid of him!”

“How much?”

“How much? Greg…!”

“How much?”

She swallowed. “Three hundred pounds.”

“Three hundred pounds! Just to touch you? It sounds like a bargain to me!”

“Please, Greg. Just drive!”

But her husband was looking at her sternly, in a way she couldn’t recall him ever looking at her before. “You wanted this,” he said.

She knew what he meant. “Not this!” she exclaimed. “Not to be touched! Not to be paid money, like…”

“Here he comes,” Greg said, his eyes on the rear view mirror. “Out you get.”

“Just drive!” she cried.

Her husband refused to relent. “You wanted this,” he told her again.

“You know what I wanted. You’re the one who had reservations.”

“Maybe I’m warming to the idea.” Greg didn’t seem too enthusiastic, more unforgiving, as if he was happy for her to be punished by proxy.

Suddenly there seemed to be no alternative. Somehow she’d managed to trap herself in a situation that she had no idea how to get out of. With limbs like jelly she got out of the car and moved back to the window of the pharmacy. She didn’t like to look at herself, but didn’t want to see the approach of Mr Smith either. Staring at the window she saw a scarlet woman reflected, next to the price off sign. She only turned at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “Show me your tits!”

There was a new steel to his voice, as if he would brook no opposition now that he was paying for her. But she wasn’t going to bow to it. “Show me the cash!”

Mr Smith leered. She got the feeling he’d expected the demand. His hand went to his pocket and he brought out a wad of notes. “It’s all yours,” he said. “Once I’m finished with you.”

His words sounded ominous, but she’d made her bed. The only thing worse than pulling up her top to expose her breasts to this stranger who was buying her was doing it with her husband watching. Expecting the steel in Mr Smith’s voice to translate to steely hands, she readied herself, but to her surprise the man satisfied himself with stroking her ample bosom.

“What’s your name?”

“Mary,” she said, immediately regretting not inventing something, like Lola or Lulu or Fifi.

“So, Mary,” the man said, his fingertips grazing her nipples as he spoke. “That really is a fantastic pair of knockers.”

She wasn’t sure if she should thank him for the compliment or not. She didn’t want to look at him, but she didn’t want to look at her husband either. Instead she stared at grey paving. There seemed nothing else to say, so she said, “Thank you” anyway.

The man chuckled and his fingertips grew harsh, closing on her nipples. She felt them harden, though she wished they wouldn’t. What was Greg playing at, letting a complete stranger touch his wife like this? It must be some kind of twisted punishment for her pushing him into this, as she’d pushed herself into it.

Still, at least Mr Smith seemed to have lost the will to speak. His fingers were all over her boobs, but he wasn’t saying anything. Hands cupped her breasts. Her nipples strained against the palms of the man’s hands. Then he was rolling them between his fingers again. She found herself feeling surprised when he leaned in, his tongue slashing at her teats in turn. She was even more surprised when he began sucking on one, his lips closing on a large chunk of flesh while his tongue slithered all over her.

She heard the car start. It could only mean one thing. As Greg pulled away from the kerb, she tried to pull her top back down, but couldn’t get it past Mr Smith’s head. She felt his hands on her hips, manoeuvring her so that she faced away from the road. Warm, wet lips kept on sucking at her as a bus rumbled past behind her.

No sooner had it done so, then her skirt was up and Mr Smith’s hands were mauling her buttocks. She heard herself squeak, a sound which could as easily be construed as excitement as surprise. The man still seemed obsessed with her full breasts, her nipples now fully swollen, one of them subject to his greedy lips.

“This is crazy.” She hadn’t meant for the whispered words to come out, but they had. Mr Smith released his hold on her nipple, but only to tongue-flick its partner. His hands were moving on her buttocks, still squeezing, but adjusting their position. She knew what his aim was and imagined her husband returning to see her with a stranger’s hand between her legs.

But that was Greg’s fault for not driving away when she told him, wasn’t it? As Mr Smith’s hands moved and his tongue lashed at her, she felt almost resentful towards Greg. She’d warned him. Well, OK, she’d badgered him into taking her flashing in this place, to expose herself to a stranger, but that was…

Caught between guilt and resentment, she was unprepared for the jolt of pleasure that hit her when Mr Smith’s fingers finally grazed her labia. The involuntary moan no doubt told Mr Smith everything he needed to know. Suddenly he’d spun her round and pushed her back against the window. His hand shot back up between her thighs, pushing, rubbing at her groin. She let out another moan, caught between guilt for responding to the man’s touch, resentment towards her husband for not putting his foot down from the start, and the knowledge that she was being paid to let the man touch her however he wished.

Finally finding the courage to look at him, she saw that he was looking at her just the way she imagined a man might look at a woman he’d bought. It appalled her, and yet even more appalling was that she found her defences crumbling.

Until she heard the sound. Footsteps. She pulled up straight, pulling her top down enough to cover her breasts, if not much else.

“What’s your problem?” Mr Smith said, with that added steel in his voice.

“But there’s someone coming!” she breathed. “They’ll see!”

“I wouldn’t have thought a pro would have a problem with that.”

She felt mortified, wanting to object to his characterization of her, but there was another issue of more pressing urgency. This space was too open. “Is there nowhere else we can go?”

“Why? Don’t you like it here?”

And with those words he drove his fingers inside her, taking Mary by surprise. She couldn’t speak, but the gasp was one that a man who habitually bought women might construe as all part of the act. Mr Smith wriggled his fingers as the new stranger came closer, for a moment looking as if he was about to ignore them altogether, then stopping. Like Mr Smith he was smartly dressed, if a tad dishevelled.

“Having fun?”

“Expensive fun,” Mr Smith said, his fingers still stirring the pot.

The new stranger looked Mary up and down. She could guess more or less what he was thinking. What else would a man think about a woman who had her skirt up and a man’s fingers inside her, and had just been described as expensive.

“Well I don't mean to interrupt,” the man said, his hand in his inside pocket. He brought out a card and took a step forward. She stared, feeling Mr Smith’s fingers curl. The other man pressed the card against her thigh, then slid it inside a stocking top. “Give me a call,” he said, before making off.

Mr Smith gave a little smirk. “Another client,” he observed. “It’s your lucky night.”

It was no such thing. She made a mental note to burn the card as soon as she could. Mr Smith was grabbing her arm. “Come on!”

“What?”

“I thought you wanted to find somewhere more private?”

She had wanted that, but only because she’d panicked at the prospect of being seen. Now she wasn’t so sure anymore. What about Greg? What would he think when he returned and she wasn’t there? What would he do? Come to that, what was keeping him? And yet here she was, stumbling after Mr Smith as he more or less pulled her after him.

The pair rounded the corner, into a pedestrianised street. To the left, brick rose five storeys high. Mr Smith ushered her to the right, where there were shops, more particularly a budget-stretching boutique. Three hundred pounds would easily buy her the mini-dress displayed in the window, the one looking like a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen.

Appalled at her own thoughts, she shook them from her mind. As torn as she was, it did feel safer here. The council had thoughtfully installed large planters, and the vegetation provided a green shield between the pair of them and the rest of the street, which seemed deserted. But as the sound of a distant car reached her ears, Mary couldn’t help thinking that she shouldn’t have followed the man. Was that Greg arriving? What would he think or do when she wasn’t where he’d left her?

Then, before she had time to think any more, Mr Smith had her pinned back against the shop window. His hands were on her shoulders, but the full weight of him was pushing against her. Not only his weight, but the full rock-solid proof of his determination to get what he was paying for. His mouth was no more than a couple of inches from hers. “Just out of curiosity,” he said. “How much would it cost for me to get something other than my fingers in your tight cunt?”

It wasn’t the question so much as the way it was phrased that made her recoil. She realised that she was holding her breath and exhaled.

Mr Smith persisted. “Four hundred? Five hundred? A grand?”

The suggestion took her breath away again. He’d be willing to pay one thousand pounds to penetrate her with the unyielding tool pushing up against her. It felt big, and not just because it was erect. She forced herself to think straight. She couldn’t. It was bad enough being paid 300 pounds for whatever this was. And Greg would be worried. She had to get back to Greg.

“Tell me,” Mr Smith insisted. “How much would it cost me to fuck you?” One of his hands had left her shoulder quickly finding the part he wanted to use under her skirt. She choked back a squeal. Mr Smith seemed to find this amusing.

“My hand,” she said, before she knew what she was saying. But it was the obvious way to end this, to make his steel melt, quickly, so she could get back to Greg. The words seemed stuck in her throat. She squeezed them out. “Would you like me to use my hand? No… No extra charge.”

“A special offer,” Mr Smith said. He sounded amused. “Who could refuse?”

She felt her heart pound. This was bad, this was really bad. But if it enabled her to extricate herself from this situation the quicker, then that was all to the good, wasn’t it? As she moved her arm, Mr Smith backed away from her, making it easier for her to touch him. She squeezed the bulge between trembling fingers, realising that it was even bigger than she’d imagined when it was pushed up against her stomach. She didn’t want the thought to excite her, but it did, a little. Mr Smith reciprocated by toying with her folds, a finger inching between them, teasing her entrance.

Greg must be wondering where she was. She needed to work fast. The zip in Mr Smith’s trousers provided no obstacle. She wormed her hand inside, then squeezed. There was a button in his boxers. She fiddled with it, feeling as she did so how his finger went in search of her clit. She wished he wouldn’t. It felt too nice, especially with the excitement of his oversized erection. She was touching it properly now, thinking that she should just do the deed as quickly as possible. Yet she wanted to see it too. Just to know what something that felt so huge looked like.

“Name your price,” Mr Smith said. “Whatever you think your precious cunt's worth.”

His words were odious, but his finger was grazing her clit, and she was staring down at the biggest cock she’d even seen. Not that she’d seen that many in her life. Instead of answering she began tugging on it, hard and fast.

“What’s the rush?” Mr Smith asked. “I may not be getting much for my three hundred, but at least let me have time.”

Damn it. She slowed her hand right down, bringing her fingers up to the big, swollen head, feeling stickiness on them where Mr Smith had oozed just a little. His fingers were back at her entrance, making as if to penetrate her but holding back, as if reminding her of his offer, as if reminding her of just how much he was prepared to pay to stick his impossibly dimensioned tool inside her. She let her fingers squeeze the spongy head before gripping the shaft again and moving her hand, her eyes fixed to the throbbing organ.

Mr Smith leaned in, his hot breath on her neck. She moved one of her feet a little further away from the other. The man’s tongue was on her skin as she moved her hand to a steady rhythm; his fingers still threatening to penetrate her, but not quite doing so.

A moan escaped her when those fingers next returned their attention to her clit. In spite of everything her body was succumbing to a familiar lure. She was forgetting. But she mustn’t forget Greg. She needed to figure out how to end this as soon as possible. Her husband would be worried, he’d be wondering where she was and what was keeping her. But why should she care? If he’d driven away when she’d told him to, none of this would be happening. Maybe Greg wouldn’t have imagined that she’d be standing here, holding a stranger’s cock while he fingered her cunt, but what had he imagined might or might not happen?

“One thousand pounds to bend over and take my cock in your wet cunt.” His lips were right up close to her ear, as if he wanted the words to penetrate her mind. She fought them. She was wet, and feeling that just standing here touching each other wasn’t enough. It was tempting, even without the offer of money.

“I can’t,” she murmured.

“You are one stubborn lady,” Mr Smith sighed.

Voices suddenly filled the air. Male voices laughing. She tensed. Mr Smith turned his head, but the vegetation proved an effective screen and the men soon disappeared. The short break brought her back to her senses. She needed to get back to Greg. Mr Smith’s cock was still in her hand, and she began stroking it as quickly as she could without arousing suspicion.

This time the man didn’t urge her to go slower. At least not at first, not until he’d eased a finger inside her. Then he grabbed her wrist, making her hold steady while he wriggled his own finger inside her.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said. “No lady has ever refused that much money from me before.”

That made her curious. “What’s the most you’ve paid to… to fuck someone?”

“Seven hundred. A married woman like you. In a park. Up against a tree.” His finger was still moving, his thumb had located her clit. She shifted a leg again, seriously tempted now. She’d be the most expensive…

Shit, what was she thinking? As resentful as she felt, she couldn’t do that to her husband, couldn’t do that to Greg. This was bad enough, wasn’t it? And yet Mr Smith’s cock felt so tempting in her hand. “Maybe another time,” she murmured.

Mr Smith refused to be put off, his thumb rubbing her clit. “Think about it. All you have to do is go over there and bend over…”

It would be so easy. Just bend over, her hands on the planter’s wall, which looked just the right height. Doing nothing except letting this man stick his cock in her and fuck her. And go home with a thousand pounds… Mr Smith had let go of her wrist and she began moving her hand again. Up and down, up and down, feeling a growing intensity in the man’s treatment of her.

“Well isn’t this a pretty way for a wife to behave,” a strange voice said from out of nowhere. It wasn’t unfamiliar, it was just that she’d never heard her husband sound like that before. She wasn’t even sure how to interpret his tone of voice.

She removed her hand from Mr Smith’s cock, but he didn’t seem put out at all. “Ah, that must be the husband,” he said. “You’re a lucky man.” There was silence, save for a low rumble from the road beyond. She just stood there, unable to look at the husband who must have come looking for her. Of course he would. Why hadn’t she realised that he would? “Your wife is so virtuous she won’t let me fuck her, even for a grand.”

Greg was moving across to them. She was too ashamed to look at him, especially since Mr Smith refused to stop fingering her. But she did give a glance to one side, astonished to see her husband’s stiff cock sticking out of his trousers. How long had he been standing there? How long had he been watching her with Mr Smith’s cock in her hand, seeing the stranger finger his wife? How much had he heard? More importantly, how could he have gone from the man who was reluctant for her to flash strangers, to being aroused by seeing her like this?

It was a question for later. Greg was pulling on her top, lifting it, exposing her big breasts once more. He grabbed at her, aggressive fingers digging into her, pinching a nipple. Still she was too ashamed to look at him; ashamed that the combined attentions of the two men had an electrifying effect on her. Hearing her own heavy breathing and then an indecently elongated moan made her doubly ashamed.

“Methinks the lady is in the mood for more,” Mr Smith said, giving her clit an extra hard rub.

“No, really, I’m fine like this,” Mary whispered, not really knowing what she was saying, why she was saying it, but knowing that it wasn’t really true. “I mean…”

There was laughter from across the street, perhaps coming from the building, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that it sounded as if it was mocking her. The men were still, waiting. Silence returned, the laugh no more than a ghostly memory. Then their hands moved again, and she felt they were demanding things of her. Mr Smith had his cock in his other hand, rubbing the head against her belly. Greg was pushing against her from the other side, squeezing her breasts and pinching her nipples as if it was some kind of punishment. Perhaps it was. Mr Smith adjusted the hand between her thighs, two fingers digging into her.

What Mr Smith wanted she already knew. What her earlier so reluctant husband was doing was a mystery to her. There was a simple way to find out, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Instead she shifted her body, taking Greg’s cock in her hand, yet unable to look him in the eye.

Her husband removed his hand from her bosom to point at the low wall surrounding the vegetation. “Go and sit over there,” he said. He sounded both stern and anxious. Mr Smith obligingly pulled away from her and she took the few short steps needed. “Skirt up!” Greg said as she turned. “Legs apart!”

She sat there, unable to comprehend what was happening. She’d badgered Greg into letting her expose herself to a complete stranger, but never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined things turning out like this. She’d imagined exposing herself just a little, then going home and going the usual round with Greg. Instead, here was her husband this stranger, both with their stiff cocks out, staring at her tits and her pussy like starving dogs.

They were exchanging words too. She strained her ears, but even in the otherwise complete silence all she could hear were murmurs. Mr Smith leered as he looked at her. Greg had a look on his face that was completely alien to her, but she realised that she liked it anyway. She also realised that she missed their hands on her. They’d made her needy, and in the cold sodium night, she realised that she wanted satisfaction.

The men’s eyes on her, she cupped her breasts, fondling them before sliding a hand down over her stomach and moving it to her crotch. The men reciprocated by grabbing their organs, moving their hands gently as they watched her. Mr Smith’s lips moved, but again all she could hear was a murmur. Nor could she hear her husband’s reply. But she could feel her own need, growing ever deeper.

Greg stepped forward, stopping halfway between her and Mr Smith. “Turn around and bend over!”

He’d said the words to her before, when they were on their own somewhere and he wanted her to pose, but not as commanding as this. She stood up, turned and placed her hands on the wall, bending over. Her skirt, which had fallen back into place, was raised and she felt the men’s gaze on her full buttocks and slick pudenda.

Then she felt it, the slap. It scared her. Not the slap as such, that was her punishment. But the sound, which reverberated. In the dead of night, anyone who happened to be close would hear it, and might come to investigate. The second slap stung worse than the first. She turned her head, not looking at Greg, but seeing the look of amusement on Mr Smith’s face as he stroked his cock.

There was a new slap. Greg wasn’t saying anything, but Mr Smith stepped forward. “Chastisement,” he mused. “Now there’s an extra treat.”

“She deserves it,” Greg decided. His hand landed on her anew.

She had to say it. “What if someone hears?”

It was Mr Smith who answered. “Then they’ll probably enjoy the sight of a very public whore being spanked. Who wouldn’t?” As Greg’s hand landed on her a fifth time, she felt humiliated that he would let a stranger say this of her. But wasn’t this at some level all her own doing? A new slap was accompanied by Mr Smith giving a delighted chuckle. Then he came closer. She felt his fingers again, touching her, breaching her folds yet again as her husband continued spanking her.

Mr Smith’s fingers explored her rim. “May I?”

The question wasn’t aimed at her, she understood that perfectly. “Be my guest,” Greg said, to her astonishment. A final slap descending on her buttock before Mr Smith stepped up. He wiped his big knob up and down the insides of her thighs before pressing it against her sex. She felt the enormous head between her labia, Mr Smith toying with her, rubbing the swollen bulb against her clit before letting it rest at her entrance.

“What do you say? Do you want my cock in your tight little cunt?”

She did. She’d been curious about it on and off for what felt like an age. But she didn’t want to go down without a fight. Before she had time to think, she’d said, “It will cost you an extra hundred.”

Why had she settled for an extra hundred when the man had offered a grand? Why had she agreed at all? What must Greg be thinking of his wife? But it was partly his doing, and it was already too late.

“It’s a deal!” Mr Smith exclaimed, simultaneously giving an almighty thrust. Mary cried out. Having that enormous organ inside her was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, forcing her to widen, striking her cervix. She heard a noise from her own throat, the inevitable consequence of being stretched so wide. Her eyes closed. She didn’t want to look. The whole situation was too bizarre. What must Greg be thinking of her? What had Greg himself been thinking?

There was no finesse to Mr Smith’s treatment of her. All she got from him was the relentless pounding of his big cock. But what did she expect? He was paying for her. She was nothing to him but a vessel for his lust. He was paying for her cunt, and it was his to use, to fuck, to skewer, to punish – and the way he rammed the thing deep inside her made her acutely conscious of this. And if he wanted to he could empty his balls in there, filling her with his seed.

She heard a sound next to her. A sound not to be mistaken, but she opened her eyes anyway, glancing to the side to check. Yes, there was her husband wanking his stiff cock as he watched her being fucked; fucked by a stranger who was paying to stretch her cunt with his enormous cock, to fill her like she’d never been filled before.

There seemed no point in holding back. Not if her husband was actually enjoying the sight of her being shafted, of her big breasts swaying beneath her. “Uh!” she gasped. “It’s so big!” She wanted to touch herself, but knew she wouldn’t be able to balance on just one arm. Finally she looked up at her husband. “Hold me, Greg,” she pleaded.

Her husband stopped attending to his cock to put his arm around her. It wasn’t the most functional arrangement, but it was enough to stop her toppling as she reached back with one hand, finding her clit with practised ease. Greg cupped a breast as she used her finger to increase her pleasure. And all the while Mr Smith worked his massive organ in her narrow channel like a man determined to squeeze the maximum pleasure from every pound he was paying.

Somehow that thought added an excitement that was wholly new to her. What was wrong with her? You’re no better than a whore, she told herself, feeling her clit sparking to her touch. You are a common whore, she told herself. The thought was electrifying. There was a moment when she thought she might be on the verge of cumming, then Greg was adjusting himself, adjusting her.

It was awkward, involving her turning. Mr Smith adapted to the movement, his cock still buried deep inside her. Then her husband was directly in front of her, his hands supporting her, his stiff cock bobbing in front of her. “Suck it,” he growled.

She adjusted her head, lips parting, tongue emerging. Mr Smith picked up where he’d left off, pounding her with intent. She slid her tongue up against her husband’s bulb, realising that he’d already oozed. Greg gave a thrust of his hips. “I said suck it!”

She’d never heard him sound so nasty, but she liked it. She adjusted her head again, sliding her lips over the huge bulb, then holding to wriggle her tongue against him. “Deeper!” Greg urged.

She obeyed. As she took more of his stiff rod in her mouth, it seemed to her as if Mr Smith felt the words were meant for him. As he pushed every inch up her tunnel, fluids began trickling down the insides of her thighs. “You know what you are, doll?” the stranger panted. “You’re spitroast.”

She’d never heard the term before, but she knew instinctively what it meant. It was disgusting and degrading and utterly exhilarating. She moved her head, eagerly providing the suction her husband craved, hearing her pussy now, its thick secretions stirred by Mr Smith’s huge cock. Spitroast, she told herself. You’re spitroast. She repeated the word in her head, knowing it made her nothing but meat, but somehow loving that fact.

As her lips worked their way as deep as they could, Greg gave a little thrust. “Spitroast!” he snarled, as if he too found the word delicious. She gagged, and pulled up a little, drooling on her husband but unwilling to relinquish the delight she was feeling at being just a lump of meat, albeit one capable of climaxing. She was tightening. It felt as if she was being torn apart by Mr Smith’s big cock as it charged back and forth. Spitroast, she told herself, you’re spitroast. Only here to be used and consumed.

Mr Smith was using his cock like a weapon, stabbing it into her ferociously. She was slobbering all over Greg, feeling her pussy tighten as the stranger stretched it. His fat head struck her cervix over and over, as if he was desperate to fill her entire body with his own meat. She felt it again, and again, and then she was lost, shuddering violently with those two cocks filling her holes and that word ringing in her head. Spitroast.

For a moment, she lost track of where she was. Then she realised that she was sitting on the low wall. She couldn’t remember how. Her legs must have given out. They still felt weak.

Then she realised that both Greg and Mr Smith were looking amused. Both had their hands round their cocks, but they weren’t looking at her. She heard voices off to one side. They sounded young. “Don’t go getting any ideas!” A male voice. A female voice responded. “Just take me home. Now!”

Shocked, she looked up at her husband. “Did they see?”

“You want to know if they saw a little whore cum as she was spitroasted?”

She hated hearing Greg talk about her in that way. And she loved it too. There were footsteps retreating.

Mr Smith chuckled, turning his attention back to her, but it was her husband who spoke. “Isn’t it time you provided ultimate satisfaction for your customer?”

The shame washed over her, rendering her paralysed for a moment. Having the two men at once had made her forget about the money. She forced herself to look Mr Smith in the eye, but couldn’t find any words.

“Ask him!” Greg breathed. “Ask him what you can do to make him cum.”

She took a deep breath. She’d never felt so humiliated in her life, forcing the words out. “What can I do to make you cum?” Humiliation mixing with transgressive excitement. She wanted it, wanted him to cum. Any way he liked.

Mr Smith grabbed her hand. He didn’t have to place it for her to instinctively grip his cock and work her hand, the way she had several times tonight already. Greg shifted, and grabbed her other hand. She moved her arm before he had time to, sitting there with her tits out and her skirt up, wanking the two stiff cocks that mere minutes ago had spitroasted her.

“You want spunk, you little whore?” Her husband once again, as if he was determined to humiliate her. And who was to say she didn’t deserve it? She certainly wanted it. She would never work out how shame and elation could co-exist like this, especially when Greg turned to Mr Smith. “Tell the little whore where you want to cum. She’ll take it anywhere.”

“For four hundred pounds, I expect nothing less,” Mr Smith said, sounding less charitable than before.

The rough, crude talk somehow made her grip their organs harder. “Tell me how you want to cum,” she breathed before she’d had time to think about it.

Mr Smith leered. “How about some of that oral action,” he suggested.

She wasn’t surprised. The only surprise was that he hadn’t suggested it earlier. She leaned forwards, pushing her lips against the enormous head before quickly sliding them over it. She held just below the glans, which was as far as she could go in any case, continuing to work the organ with her hand. This seemed to agree with the man, because he just stood, letting her slither her tongue against him as her hand pumped.

What she hadn’t bargained for was the effect this would have on her husband. There was a strangled cry from Greg. Still working him, she felt it, his seed, jetting out. There were drops on her nylons. A huge spurt struck her belly and slithered towards her mound. More spunk flew out, striking her as she sat there with the stranger’s big cock in her mouth.

“Fuck! You’re one hot, skanky whore,” Mr Smith grunted as she sat there, sticky stuff coating her fingers as she worked the last from her husband. “One thing! I don’t want you swallowing, capisce?”

She whined, which was the only response she could give. The way the stranger’s cock was growing steelier and steelier told her he was right where he wanted to be. He grunted again. She looked up at Greg, who had suddenly reached out to pinch and twist a nipple. He looked both angry and genuinely elated. “Take his spunk, whore!” he growled.

The sticky stuff was already shooting out of the stranger’s cock. She forced her throat shut, the better to keep all of his seed in her mouth. There seemed to be no end to the stuff. Finally some did trickle down her throat, but only a little. By then, Mr Smith was saying, “Drool it all over your tits, whore!”

He slowly pulled his cock from her mouth, and she carefully held his semen in her mouth. She intuited the kind of display he wanted, cupping her breasts and pushing them together before tilting her head and releasing his copious load, making sure to give equally to both. The slime slid slowly over the curve of her bosom, sliding round erect nipples.

The two men looked on with obvious pleasure. It shocked her to realise that as soiled as she felt inside and out, if they wanted to try getting it up again, she wouldn’t argue. Still, perhaps it was all for the best that Mr Smith was making himself respectable again. As Greg also rearranged himself to normality, Mr Smith stuck a hand in his pocket, bringing out hard cash.

At first she felt that perhaps she shouldn’t accept it. But then she was holding out her hand and Mr Smith was counting aloud as he placed the notes in her hand, all four hundred pounds. Not knowing what to do with the cash, she folded it and stuck it inside her stockings, where the calling card from the other stranger was still nestling. Realising it was there made her go hot and cold all over.

“Well,” Mr Smith said, “I’ve paid for a lot of sex in my time, but this was definitely among the best.” He had his hand in his pocket again, bringing out a card of his own.

She took it, feeling ashamed of what she’d done, yet obscurely pleased to be among the best. The card joined the other one and the cash. Mr Smith turned and walked away without another word. She got to her feet a little unsteadily, feeling the men’s semen start to congeal on her skin in the cool night air. As she grabbed her jumper to wipe some of it off, her husband grabbed her arm and held her wrist hard. “None of that, you little tart,” he hissed.

“But I have to!”

“No you don’t. You’re going back to the car exactly as you are; skirt up, tits out, spunk all over you, money in your stockings. Every inch the dirty little whore.”

She followed her husband, feeling horribly afraid and ashamed, though she was in luck. What was a hive of activity during the day was now totally abandoned. That didn’t stop her from feeling horribly exposed, with her naked breasts and pussy, semen everywhere, including on her nylons. Worst of all was everything that had been exposed to her husband, and to herself.

In the safety of the car, she pulled the cash from her stocking along with the two cards. She didn’t know what to say. There could be no excuse for what she’d done, even though Greg had played a part in a most surprising way. In the end she settled on, “It won’t happen again.”

Her husband turned to her, reaching out and plucking the two cards from her hand before studying them. “Why not?” he said with a slight tremble in his voice.

Her mouth opened wide. “Surely you can’t…”

“Maybe you should give them a ring,” Greg said. “If they’re willing to pay silly money…”

“You want me to prostitute myself?”

“From the look of you, I’d say that misplaced outrage doesn’t become you.” She was finding it difficult to judge his voice. What he was suggesting was terrible, and yet… “Maybe they’ll even be happy to share you.”

“Surely you must understand that this was… Things just got out of hand.” But inside her head, the word spitroast re-asserted itself. To her eternal shame, the thought of once again being a spitroasted whore was making her pussy tingle.