Heather Martin gazed around the room at the crowd of smartly dressed people, all 20's and 30's it looked like, and sipped her wine spritzer. So many attractive people -- let's be honest, so many attractive women -- it was a good thing she looked a knockout herself in a little black dress and high-heel straps. It was too bad her husband John couldn't make it, but then he often was tied up when they were scheduled to attend an event.

Her mind wandered along with her eyes. That girl she knew from somewhere and the women beside her went to her fitness club. That guy over there, 'nice' she thought.

This must have, involuntarily, caused a smile to cross her face because the man in question picked up the vibes and smiled back. Which caused Heather to blush and look into her wine.

The man she had looked at was making his way across the room.

'Oh, God!" Heather thought.

"Yes," he said smiling as he came up to her, "I'm available. But I see from the ring on your finger you're not."

"That's very conventional thinking," Heather said, flirting.

"I'm not always conventional," the man said. "My name's Mike, bye the way, Mike Williams".

"Heather Wilson Rees," Heather said, extending her hand. Then she batted his conversation back across the net.

"How are you not conventional?" She asked. "How aren't you just another handsome guy chatting up a woman who's husband is too busy to escort her to a charity event?"

"Well," Mike said, sipping his drink, "I only chat up married women. In fact I only have sex with them. Single girls have one big disadvantage."

Heather wasn't sure where to start with that line; the attraction this guy had to married women, the outrageous comment about sex, or the 'disadvantage' exhibited by single girls. She decided to start with the latter.

"What's the problem with single girls? Isn't that what 'Sex in the City' is all about?"

"And what are the characters in that trying to do all the time?" Mike responded.

"Get laid?" Heather said.

"Get married," Mike answered. "They can be really nice on the first date, and on the fifth date. But sooner or later you get to meet the parents and are taken to someone else's wedding. It's like they think you're too slow to 'get it.'

"To realize the purpose of sex is to get hitched," Heather smiled.

"Exactly," Mike said. "Exactly right."

The wine and cheese party swirled around them. Music played. Waiters passed through the crowd with glasses of wine and canapes. Conversation rose and fell in waves. Despite the crowd, or maybe because of it, Heather felt remarkably alone with Mike.

"OK, seriously now," she said. "You're a professional gigolo?"

Mike laughed, and then smiled, a gorgeous grin, Heather thought for someone so despicable.

"No, not at all," Mike replied. "Quite the reverse. I buy sex from married women instead of marrying them. It works for them because they get an hour of no-guilt fun and games, and it works for me because I don't get entangled."

"Married hookers," Heather said.

"Nope, wrong again," Mike replied, "good professional women who no one would think in a million years would do such a thing."

"You must be quite persuasive," Heather said.

"Well, I don't know," Mike said. "I try to give them a good time and then there's the money of course; a thousand dollars."

"What, a week?"

"No, each time."

"You're telling me you pay married women a thousand dollars to have sex with you each time?"

"Yes, precisely," Mike answered. "Here's my card. Give me a call if you're interested."

"I think you're a bastard," Heather said, ripping up the card and turning away, pushing her way across the room towards someone she noticed from John's office.

All of which doesn't explain why ten minutes later she retraced her steps, bent down and picked the two pieces of Mike's card off the floor. As she put them in little gold purse she noted the rip wasn't across the phone number under his name.

As she drove home in her Lexus, Heather realized she had already been unfaithful to her husband in her mind. She had already, mentally, taken her clothes off. She had imagined Mike in the buff. She had imagined . . . She pulled to the curb, had a close look at Mike's card and memorized his number. Then she opened the window, threw the two pieces out and drove on. Her mind wandered through her own life; her husband's life, how they'd met, how they'd had Susan -- now at a babysitter's -- and how John had said he didn't want any more kids. How often did they have sex now? She thought back; last Thursday? No, a week last Saturday. They weren't even doing it once a week for Heaven's sake. She thought again about Mike, about the compliment he'd paid her. Paid. He paid for sex! My God. She felt her vagina throb as if wakened from a sleep. There was the driveway to her home.

Heather made a little bet with herself; if John asked for sex she would forget about Mike. She walked through the house. Yes, there was Susan in her bed. And, yes, there was John, dead to the world.

Heather began to undress, slowly, as if she were being watched. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked at her breasts, her nipples. She turned her body to get everything in profile. It wasn't bad really. Actually, she was pretty hot stuff when you looked at it, she thought. Gently she touched her nipples and sent a shiver through her body. She decided, as she drifted off to sleep, she would call Mike in the morning.

"Damn him," she thought, and then was asleep.

The next morning, Heather made John his breakfast, which he gobbled down before heading out the door. He waved at Heather instead of kissing her goodbye. Heather finished her own breakfast, then drove Susan to her daycare, and continued on to her own job as a Vice President in charge of personnel at a large downtown company. When she arrived, she asked her secretary Judy to add a luncheon appointment to her schedule from 11:30 till 2.00. Then she phoned Mike.

"Hello, is that Michael?" she asked

"Yes, it is. Who's this?"

"It's Heather Wilson Rees. I met you at the Art Gallery fundraiser last night."

"Oh, yes," Mike replied, "you tore my business card in half."

"I did," Heather replied. "But somehow I seem to have your number all the same. I accept your offer. When can we meet?"

Michael, as company president, could arrange his schedule to suit himself, and today he was working from home. It made his answer easy to give.

"Today," he said. "Eleven thirty at my place. Here's the address."

He gave Heather the address and after checking she had it right, hung up with 'see you then.'

Heather dove back into her job and came up for air just after 11:15. She slipped her suit coat back on, strode to the door, took the elevator to the ground floor and got the reception desk to order a cab from the rank around the corner. Touching her hair, she walked out the front door of her granite-fronted office tower, opened the rear door of a cab that pulled up, gave the driver the address and sat back. She felt . . . what did she feel? . . . excited and terrified. Her body, normally far from her thoughts, was on fire. Especially her nipples. Her breath came in short spurts. What was the matter with her? She looked out the window at what could have been a different country. Where was she going? What was she about to do? She, who knew how to manage a department of hundreds, had no answer. Suddenly, the car pulled to a stop.

"This is it, lady," the driver said.

'Boy is he right,' Heather thought to herself as she paid him and got out.

Mike's home was a four-story town house in a quiet, expensive street in midtown. The front door had a large brass knocker in the form of a Siena lion holding a ring. She knocked. She took a breath. She nearly fainted. Mike opened the door.

"Hi, come in," he said, smiling. "You look terrific."

Heather almost scuttled past him as he closed the door. The ground floor room was beautifully and expensively furnished. Realistic portraits and landscapes, done in oils, hung on the walls. There was a small grand piano. A Persian rug covered the golden oak floor.

"Come," Mike said.

He led her into the room and pointed at a leather covered sofa.

"Make yourself comfortable."

Heather sat down. She was a bit puzzled at the reception she was getting. Were all his hookers subjected to such pleasant treatment?

"What," she said, "do I have to do?"

"Well, first off, you can relax," Mike said. "Can I get you something to drink? A sherry?"

Heather's voice was dry.

"Yes," she said, "why not."

She looked around the room admiring the furnishings and decorations. If Mike's taste in women was as good as his taste in interior decorating, his comment a moment earlier was quite a compliment. He appeared from behind a bar at the end of the room bearing two glasses, one of which he haded over. Then he sat down opposite her.

"Cheers," he said.

The two of them looked at each other with a smile playing on their lips until Heather finally looked down.

"You're making me blush," she said, sipping her drink.

"That's an interesting comment," Mike replied. "You know, men and women are constantly looking at each other, scoping the opposition as it were. We look around us to see if there's anyone sexually interesting, we decide if we would have sex with this person or that, and we think about what it would be like. This is a continuing activity; both sexes, but we do it quickly, covertly, in the blink of an eye. I'd like, now that you've agreed to come to my place and exchange love for money, to do things a little differently. I'd like you to get undressed, right here, and take your time. I'd like to drink in the look of you. I'm not talking about a strip tease. I'm talking about getting undressed leisurely. Will you do that for me?"

Heather put down her drink and smiled.

"I think I can manage that," she said.

She stood up and as she did so, she reached behind her neck and undid a string of pearls. Then she removed her two gold ball earrings and placed them on a side table. Gaging the distance between her side of the room and his, she walked to the centre of the carpet and stopped.

"About here?" she asked.

"Yes, that's perfect," Mike replied. "Take your time."

He got up from his sofa, went to a hi-fi set in a cabinet and put on some relaxed jazz. Then he resumed his seat and picked up his drink.

Heather took off her suit jacket and laid it on the coffee table behind her. She then started on her blouse, unbuttoning it from the top to the bottom. Then the cuffs. Then she let it slip from one shoulder and the other revealing a delicate light-yellow, push-up bra in French lace. She looked at Michael, then did a quarter turn, and another, and another and turned back to face him.

"How am I doing?" she asked.

"Just as I imagined," Mike replied. "Classy on the outside, classy on the inside. I presume there's a matching set of panties beneath that skirt?"

Heather moved to her waistband, undid the button at the back, pushed down the zipper and let her skirt slide down her legs to the floor. Then she stepped out of it, folded the skirt and put it on top of her blouse and jacket. She resumed looking at Mike.

"You're not wearing panti hose," he remarked.

"Not today," Heather replied. "I can't imagine why."

She rounded her shoulders, moving them together, and undid the snap that held the bra together in front. Her perfectly formed size C breasts fell out like two ivory balloons filled with jelly. Each breast jiggled independently as she stood back up straight. The sight took Mike's breath away.

Heather turned around again before she removed her shoes, pull-ups, and pantie. At last, she was nude. She stood quietly and looked at him.

"You're very beautiful," he said. "Your posture, your proportions, your breasts, the way I can see daylight between your legs. Turn around."

Heather did as she was told.

"A skater's bum, dimples, no tattoo's."

She turned back to face him and realized Mike was standing up. He walked towards her. He was directly in front of her. She could feel the heat from his chest. Feel the warmth of his breath. Feel . . . his fingers on her nipples.

"Aaah,! she said, involuntarily, as the shock flushed through her body. The next second his lips were on hers and his tongue was sliding into her mouth. She shook, literally shook, with excitement.

"You've got goosebumps," Mike said softly as he pulled away from her.

"God, I'll say," Heather replied.

At which point, Mike scooped her up in his arms and began carrying her up the stairs that led to the master suite above.

"Is this where you have your way with me?" Heather asked dreamily.

Afterwards, as they lay in his big, mahogany bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets, with a light breeze gently moving the sheers on the tall windows to their left, Heather looked at Mike and traced her fingers across his face.

"You know," she said, "you're the first man to ever make me come first, before making love. Where did you learn that little trick?"

"Simple desperation really," he replied. "Most women can come a dozen times or more. I figured I'd better make it at least twice."

"Such a clever man you are," she said.

Mike rolled over on his side, the better to see the shape and heft of the lazy, happy, satiated woman at his side.

"So what would you be doing now normally?" he asked.

"You mean when I'm not committing adultery," Heather said. "I'd be game-planning my afternoon; figuring out how to get the people I don't like to do the things I do like, and to get the people I do like, not to do the things I don't like. Management; it's like herding cats really."

"But you love it."

"Absolutely."

Mike rolled off the bed and went to a built-in dresser. He grabbed a thick terry robe and brought it back to the bed.

"There's an en-suite through that door with a walk-in shower and all the usual condiments. When you're finished, I'll have a light lunch for you on the patio. It's private so you'll be fine in the robe."

He was standing beside the bed which made it easy for Heather to move towards him and grab his member lightly in her hand. Then she put it in her mouth and swallowed the whole thing. There was an immediate response.

"Or we could have lunch a little later," Mike said, gasping slightly.

"Uh huh," came a muffled sound from between his legs.

They lunched after dressing in the secluded patio; quiche, salad, Gewürztraminer, a small vase of cut pansies and solid yellow napkins.

"This is lovely," Heather said. "Much too nice to be spoiled -- soiled I should say -- by money. You can keep your thousand; I'll keep my dignity."

"As you wish," Mike said. "You're certainly worth it."

That evening Heather dressed specially for her husband John's arrival after sending Susan over to her friend Mary's for a sleepover. She had been to a costume shop and picked out a 'Naughty French Maid's' outfit with a short, flared skirt, deep cut décolletage and exposed black nylons. A pair of her own four-inch heels and she was perfect. On the sideboard was something else, a Scottish Tawse.

As she hoped, although not as she predicted, John actually noticed his wife was done up like something from the BDSM world.

"Well, hot damn," he said. "To what do I owe this getup?"

"May I get you a drink," Heather responded. "Scotch? Rye? beer?"

"Beer would be good," John said, falling into his easy chair.

Heather returned a moment later with a Pilsen glass filled with Pilsner Urquell.

"Here you are my dear," she said, handing him the drink. "Now bottoms up, as we maids say, because I've got some bad news for you."

"Bad?"

"Yes," Heather replied, "Very bad. For lunch today, instead of having a sandwich, I had it off with a very nice guy I met last weekend and managed two climaxes in about 20 minutes. After which I gave him a blow job that just about blew his head off. After which we had lunch. Now the reason I'm telling you this is that I want to preserve our marriage; and I guess telling you the truth is the one way to do that. Telling you what I need to avoid going astray in future is the other way. From now on, you will have to make love to me twice a week, unexpectedly if possible, leisurely if possible, but no less than twice. If you don't do this little chore, I'll leave you for someone who will. I'm also moving into the guest room for the foreseeable future to try and rekindle some interest from you in the woman you married. And one more thing, the first four fucks I get from you have to be in a ritzy hotel, or hotels, in town or elsewhere. Your tab. So that's the news.

"Well, shit," John exclaimed

"Oh, there is something else I didn't mention," Heather added. "I feel guilty as hell about what I did, not because I did it, but because I enjoyed it so much. As penance, I rented this maid's outfit and bought a Scottish Tawse for you to beat my bum with until you can't stand my crying any more."

Heather went to the sideboard, came back with the Tawse and handed it to her husband. She then assumed 'the position' and waited to see if there really is some value, occasionally, in taking a different approach.

[end]