Whether I’m watching her in the act, snapping photos, or listening to the naughty tales when she gets home, sharing my wife is woven into the fabric of our marriage. Our bedroom is filled with risqué memories we relive over and over while we make love.

Not long ago, our favorite swingers’ site opened an erotic story section. Describing graphic details of Bea’s escapades to a community of like-minded deviants took our exhibitionist kink to a new level.

Our inbox overflowed whenever one of Bea’s nasty tales hit the site. Most were from single guys, pining to be the next stranger in her hotel room. “Pick me next!” they begged for a chance to send her home with their DNA dripping down her thigh.

One fan in particular, William, had followed our stories from the beginning. His comments always stood out—articulate but rather stilted and clinical. He was an older white guy, not the type she ever described in her stories. Despite pics of his rather impressive girth, she’d politely deflect him: “Sorry, dude, you are too far away to plan anything.”

Then, one night last May, I was checking our profile in bed, stroking myself, waiting for Bea to get naked for me. A message popped onto my screen: “How about I cover airfare for both of you for a weekend getaway?” A few minutes later, I was about to blow up in her mouth when he added, “This could be a story like no other you have never written before.” That was all he wrote.

The idea intrigued us both. He lived several states away, and if his profile was true, he was near the beach in a well-to-do part of Southern California.

"Is accepting a plane ticket the same as accepting cash?" she asked, and grabbed the eight-inch vibrating dildo she called Angus from the nightstand. It was a good question. More than once, we’d debated the fine line between being a slut and a whore. For a promiscuous woman like her, was there a difference anyway? She never opened her legs for free, even if it was only a round of drinks while she sized up a prospect.

“Could you see yourself doing this?” I asked, picturing her counting out a wad of bills, putting them on the nightstand, then ... pulling her dress off over her head—exactly what she had just done for me. She was five-ten, one hundred and fifty pounds. Despite bearing me three kids, her B-cup tits were still quite perky.

Her voice was raspy as she plunged Angus in and out of her furry hole, but she finally said, “Yeah, I think so.” Something in her voice, and the way the bumps around her nipples hardened, told me this wasn’t our typical foreplay. She was into it as deep as I was. When I slid my finger into her, she was wetter than she’d ever been.

Most of our crazier fantasies evaporated in the daylight, but this one stuck and reemerged night after night, even when we were not having sex. She texted ideas in the middle of the workday. We traded scenarios to flesh out possibilities far more elaborate than the simple weekend excursion William had offered. It was a lot like evolving one of the erotic stories we wrote together that captured his attention in the first place.

His place or our hotel? Did she want me with her, watching? Or did she dare go solo? A one-night dalliance or a full weekend? What about photos? Would he get editorial rights to a story he promised to inspire?

When I mentioned money, she sort of scoffed. Payment was the obvious threshold we were considering, right?

"You know I love hotwifing for you, but asking for money? Really?" She wrinkled her nose to feign disdain, but her pussy clenching around my dick told another story. “That’s way different than buying me dinner or even a plane ticket.”

“Isn’t that the point?” I coaxed her along. “How much would you ask for if you did?”

"A hundred?" she ventured. We both remembered what she’d done in that jacuzzi with the VP for sales to earn the coveted corner office at work. A Benjamin wasn’t even an opening bid. "It feels wrong taking cash for something I give up freely."

I cupped her face for a kiss. "But you give it up to men you choose. Men you are attracted to. You haven’t even met this guy. He sounds like a dork. “Is a hundred bucks enough … to follow through with it?”

She mulled that over and rolled over onto her hands and knees, pointing her beautiful ass my direction. "What am I worth then?" she asked. I rubbed the tip of my penis across her fuzzy lips.

The dark pubic hair lining her glistening labia and asshole was flecked with gray, and I prodded her opening with my head. “This cunt is premium. A grand, minimum."

When she looked back at me, her eyes flashed. "Really? You’d pay a thousand bucks to fuck me?"

“Absolutely." I moved closer, outlining a hypothetical business plan for her consideration. "You’re not a hooker. You'd be high-class. An escort. Dinner first, wearing something pricey and seductive. Then to his place to be his till dawn.” Imagining her actually doing what I described pushed me to the brink. “Oh, yeah. You are worth every cent." I moaned, trying not to release into her … yet.

"I could definitely be that," she mused, pushing her hips deliberately against mine. By the time we both finished, our counteroffer had crystallized and was ready to send.

Haggling unfolded through several late-night text exchanges, including a steamy cam session where Bea demonstrated what he might experience for his ‘investment’. Our proposal was not at all what he initially had in mind, but William enthusiastically embraced the escort part. There was some give and take, but we ultimately landed on the thousand-dollar fee, with William handling all travel and hotel arrangements as he had first suggested.

Bea would meet him at a restaurant of his choice, dressed in an ensemble he would curate and purchase. I would remain outside with the car while they ‘got to know each other,’ privately, over dinner. We left the specifics of the restaurant and her attire to be determined, adding a layer to the mystique. Assuming the initial meeting proved satisfactory, he’d pay the agreed-upon fee, and I'd chauffeur them to his home. She wouldn’t commit to an all-nighter, so we left that on the table to negotiate when the time came.

Bea requested some ground rules, but dropped most of them to goose her price. William insisted we leave all options open … with one concession. I'd remain nearby as a safety net. If, for any reason, she felt uncomfortable, she could terminate the entire arrangement. Of course, her fledgling ‘career’ in the trade would end before it began, but we’d have a paid trip to Southern Cal, which was how this all started anyhow.

Seven days ahead of our trip, the hotel confirmation arrived, along with our e-tickets to Orange County Airport. The week built up her anticipation, but also fomented second thoughts. A lot could go sideways when she wasn’t the one calling all the shots, and she asked to back out of the deal every other night. She wasn’t just selling her body for cash; she had bartered away the one card she had always jealously guarded—control.

It took some serious cajoling, but by that next Saturday afternoon, I was behind the wheel of a Cadillac Escalade speeding down the I-5 freeway toward the Hyatt Regency. There, waiting in our room, was William’s second installment: a Simone Pérèle bag.

Piece by piece, she pulled her attire for the evening. While I lay on the bed watching, my hand in my pants, she stripped off her yoga pants and T-shirt. Before my eyes, my wife, the mother of my children, transformed into a lady of the evening.

First she slid the white satin panties up her smooth thighs, to cover her freshly waxed snatch. I had never seen her bald down there. Then she donned the black garter and stockings, carefully snapping the clip atop the hose. The nearly transparent white lace bra clasped in front, barely concealing her aroused pinkish-brown areolas. Her nipples were even harder than my cock.

Last, she shimmied into a blue velvet cocktail dress. As I zipped her, I caught her reflection in the mirror. The dress was surprisingly conservative, covering everything from her neck to her knees. But the way it clung to her body—wow! She dabbed Dior strategically behind each ear and along her inner thighs where I imagined her rich benefactor nuzzling his face.

"You look expensive." I sniffed the scent at her neck. Not a slut or a whore, but a paid companion. The woman in the mirror wasn’t going to ‘fuck for fun’; she was going to ‘make love for money.’