001

~Sandra’s pov~

How much do I pay this male prostitute to fuck me?

That was the only question in my head as I sat there in that dim, sleek booth, with the sultry beat from the club's speakers thrumming through my bones.

The hand of the said male prostitute---sorry escort as he preferred to be called-- slipped up my chest, almost cupping my breast and I wondered yet again, really and genuinely —what the fuck was the appropriate amount to pay this tall gorgeous man to fuck me tonight?

Was it like a tip? A flat f*e? Did they charge by the hour, or by the orgasm?

The man in question was sitting across from me, looking gorgeous, dark-eyed, with hair that looked like it cost more to maintain than my entire wardrobe.

I watched through hooded eyes as he raised a shot of something amber to my lips before pouring it down my throat, with his fingers brushing my chin as he tilted the glass.

The liquor burned through me hotly but not as much as hot as the humiliation that had been searing through my gut for the past two hours.

The escort’s eyes—I think he said his name was Raul-- traced down my body, over the tight, slutty dress I’d bought at a lingerie store that closed at midnight, down to my hand, and then—oh fuck— his eyes went down to the wedding ring I’d forgotten to take off.

I quickly tried to hide it, twisting my hand under the table, but my attempts were clumsy and useless because he’d already seen it.

He already knew I was a married young but naïve woman who had become desperate enough to pay a man to fuck her, instead of her husband.

I saw the flicker of shock in his eyes, then the question and finally the judgment he tried to hide.

He probably thought I was a promiscuous cheating whore who was cheap enough or twisted enough to want sex from a strange man who would not have ever bothered to touch me if he wasn’t getting paid.

But I didn't give a shit about what he thought.

I was paying him to fuck me, not to judge my life decisions. No one got to judge me anymore.

Not my family, not my friend’s and especially not that cheating, lying scum I’d called a husband.

I refused to be his loyal dog of a wife any longer. I refused to be that pathetic, unwanted desperate woman who used to stay at home, baking cookies and leaving sweet notes for a man she thought was as loyal to her as much as she was loyal too him.

That woman was dead and I was here to bury her for good.

My mind suddenly spiraled back to that moment that everything changed for me.

It was just a few hours ago, and I’d been standing in our bedroom, wearing that stupid lavender lingerie I’d bought special for our 2nd anniversary.

It was a little black lace number that had cost me a whole week’s grocery budget since I didn’t want to disturb my husband for money, plus I had wanted this to be a surprise.

I’d sprayed the perfume he said he liked, lit the candles, arranged the rose petals on the bed like a goddamn porno set. I was so fucking eager, so desperate for him to touch me after two years of nothing but cold shoulders and excuses.

But then suddenly, He sent me a text: “Running late. Meeting clients. Don’t wait up.” I read and reread the curt message in disbelief. Didn’t he remember that this was our anniversary? Why couldn’t he just sacrifice this single night for the sake of our marriage?

I was beyond disappointed by the text but I believed him. Of course I believed him. I was that pathetic. Then later, I thought maybe if I called him, teased him a little, whispered something dirty in his ear, he’d hurry home.

So I dialed, and it connected, but instead of his voice I heard—God, I can still hear it—the wet, sloppy sound of someone getting fucked over my husband’s phone.

I had gaped at the phone in shock, then before I could even process what I was hearing, I suddenly heard a woman’s voice, whining and begging: “Yes, yes, fuck me harder, Liam, make me cum on your cock.”

The blood immediately drained from my face at the sound of my husband’s name but then… I heard his voice, that same voice that had told me he was too tired for sex, said: “You’ve got the best pussy, baby. So much better than my wife. Sandra’s a fucking dead fish in bed, that’s why I haven’t touched her in two years. Can’t even make her cum anyway.”

I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, my knees buckling when I heard his words.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t move.

And then I quickly realized that the slut—whoever she was—must have picked up my call on purpose so that I could hear them, because she began goading him: “Tell me how much better I am than your wife, baby. Tell me I’m the best fuck you’ve ever had.” She begged and he did.

He said it like it was nothing, like I was nothing, like the years of me trying to please him, of swallowing my own desires, of pretending I didn’t notice his coldness, were just a joke.

He laughed. He laughed and said, “Don’t worry about her. She’s probably at home crying over a romance novel while I’m here pounding the tightest pussy in the city. You feel so fucking good baby.”

I cut the call immediately and dropped the phone on the floor. And then I sank to the carpet, the lace of my lingerie scratching my skin, as I began to cry. And these were not the usual quiet tears I cried when I was alone, and wishing he would come home early for once.

No these were ugly, snotty, heaving sobs that tore out of me like a dying animal.

It was our fucking anniversary for God’s sake and I’d planned a whole evening for us.

I’d wanted to feel wanted, to feel like a woman, not a piece of furniture. Instead I got to listen to my husband tell his little slut that I was a dead fish.

After an hour of crying, something finally snapped.

While he was balls-deep in some office assistant or barely-legal intern, I was on the floor, mascara-stained, ruined.

Why should I be the one crying? Why should I be the one who stayed loyal when He’d never even made me cum?! Not once. Not in the entire marriage. At best, he’d fuck me for three minutes, roll over, and snore. And then he had the audacity to call me terrible in bed? The rage burned hot and clean, burning away the grief.

I stood up, wiped my face, and decided right there: I was going to get myself a good lay. I was going to find someone who would fuck me properly, who would make me scream, who would prove that I wasn’t the problem.

I’d destroy the obedient wife version of me, the one who begged for scraps of affection. I’d burn her down with my own hands.

So I got dressed in the trashiest thing I could find—a red dress that barely covered my ass, heels that made my feet ache, no bra because why bother, and I walked into that dark club downtown like a ghost.

I was so out of place. Everyone else was young, confident, grinding on each other.

I was a 29 -year-old woman with a wedding ring still on my finger and a desperate look in my eyes. I found the guy… Raul the escort—through a website I’d looked up on my phone in the bathroom. I texted him, told him I’d pay whatever he wanted, just please don’t hurt me.

He met me at the bar, bought me a drink, and now we were in this booth, his hand sliding up my thigh, his mouth at my ear, whispering all the dirty things he was going to do.

And I should have been happy right? Cause this is what I had wanted, so why the hell was I almost panicking now?!

What if he was terrible? What if he had some weird kink I couldn’t handle? What if he had a disease? My heart started racing, with my breath catching in my throat.

What the hell had been wrong with me?! Why had I hired a total stranger to have sex with me?! This was not right.

I could feel a cold sweat breaking out on my upper lip.

The music suddenly felt too loud, the lights too bright, and the weight of what I was about to do… actually paying a stranger to fuck me—crushed down on my chest.

I was suddenly about to bolt, hurl my ass out of there and run far, maybe go home and cry some more, but then suddenly.. I heard it.

A voice behind me called my name. A familiar, horrifying voice cut through the bass and the chatter like a blade.

“Oh Sandra, Don’t tell me you actually paid for this man to fuck you?”

My blood instantly turned to ice and I spun around, my mind screaming that I had fucked up.

That Liam had somehow found me, he caught m and this is the worst possible thing that could ever happen, but when my eyes landed on the face behind that voice, I realized it wasn’t my husband.

No. It was so much worse.