All the Mistress' Money -part 1
And that bastard! That total fucking bastard! How dare he? How could he? How could the man she married do something like this? And how could he spend so much, so quickly? He’d definitely spent it all – Dawn had seen the statements from his secret account. He’d put the £55,000 in ten months ago, withdrawn £1260 in cash, every week (plus some occasional extras), and was now overdrawn. So it was all gone! Dawn got paid more than her husband, which meant most of the money he’d spent had been earned by her. Jesus Christ! What a bastard! What a deceitful, idiotic, pathetic bastard!
You know what: he could have his whore. Dawn didn’t care about that, anymore… they hadn’t had sex in ages, anyway. Let him fuck his little fucking whore. But why did he have to pick such an expensive one? How could she cost so much? What did she look like? A super-model? A movie star? Some kind of exotic, Kamasutra sex goddess? She’d better be pretty fucking special if she was going to charge that much. Dawn peered aggressively towards the house, attempting to laser her eyes through the walls. What should she do? According to the intel, her husband was due here in about ten minutes. Best plan would be to park somewhere more discreet, with a good view of the house… and wait for him to show. Maybe let him get inside, then follow and knock on the door. Catch him red-handed!
A glimpse of movement from the building. The door had opened and a woman emerged carrying bin-bags. A flash of blonde and pink, although Dawn’s view was now obstructed by the hedge. She leapt out of the car and ran into the road. Just in time to see the woman walking back in, but not quick enough to catch her face. She was wearing: a cutesy, close-fitting blazer; a short, pleated skirt; and dinky high-heels – all pink. A bounce of yellow pig-tails as she disappeared inside. The spy scowled, profoundly unimpressed. Girly, pink clothes and pig-tails – how nauseatingly crass and tacky. How could she be so expensive when she looked so fucking cheap?
Dawn was standing in the middle of the road. A car had drawn up and was waiting for her to move. Walking to the pavement, she looked over to see her husband sitting behind the wheel. The horror in his face as they made momentary eye-contact, before his head jolted away. He scrambled around frantically and the car lurched forward. Driving straight past his wife and jerking off up the street. The screeching automobile sounded almost as terrified as its driver looked. Dawn wandered back into the road and watched the vehicle disappear around a corner.
What a spineless fucking bastard! Why had she married such a worming welt of man? She marched back to her car and climbed inside. What should she do? Chase him? That would really shit him up. Call him? He wouldn’t dare answer. If he did, he’d probably try to deny what’d just happened. Would definitely attempt to weasel his way out of it, somehow. Maybe he’d try his classic: ‘I just don’t like talking about “things” as much as you do.’ The rage inside bubbled like a cannibal’s hot-pot – she’d lower him into it later… genitalia first!
It’s not like she really gave a fuck about him. But she did give a fuck about the money. Her hard-earned pounds. How did this whore cost so much? Dawn had to see her – see what all her money had been spunked on. She stepped out of the vehicle and stalked towards the house. Judging from the whore’s tasteless clothes, she’d probably been wasting Dawn’s salary filling her home with garish, pink tat. The raging wife would enjoy telling her what a fucking whore she was – a horrible, home-wrecking whore. Maybe invent some children to pile on extra guilt. Although the whore probably wouldn’t care. Probably knows he’s married. Must fuck married men all the time. That’s what paid for the massive fucking house. Well, this wife would be demanding her money back – it wasn’t his to spend in the first place!
She marched down the drive and attacked the doorbell with a long, angry buzz. Solid, aggressive posture – body language lining up in battle formation. No answer, so she rang again. I know you’re in there, whore! A few more seconds and the door opened. The petite blonde standing there, gawping… in her silly, little, pink suit. She looked young… and scared. Quite pretty, with her baby-blue eyes and plump lips, but nothing to write home about – didn’t look worth £1260 per fuck.
‘I’m Mrs Henfield!’ Fierce emphasis on the ‘Mrs’.
A flash of recognition flitted over the girl’s face. She looked nervous, although not as worried as she should be.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Henfield. Please come through.’ High-pitched voice with the hint of a west-country accent.
Almost sounded as if she were expecting the angry wife rather than the gormless husband. The girl pulled the door wide and stood to the side, just out of view. Dawn hesitated a moment, before decisively stomping through. The hallway was spacious and airy – high-ceiling, sheeny floorboards, white walls lined with elegant artwork. Blondie shut the door and picked up a pink clipboard from a small table by the door. Too timid to make eye-contact as she turned back to the visitor. She didn’t seem very tough, for a whore – this angry wife was going to eat her alive.
‘Please come through, Mrs Henfield.’
The girl whisked off and Dawn followed. Maybe she had a set procedure for this situation – a special room where furious spouses could be placated discreetly? Watching her wiggling along, Dawn remained underwhelmed. The wife was confident she compared quite favourably to the whore. Dawn had a pretty face… and she’d aged well. Silky, brown hair and sparkly, green eyes. She’d put on a bit of weight, over the years, but it was concentrated in all the right places – accentuating her womanly figure. And she had big, buxom, bouncy breasts that caught everyone’s attention. Her business suit was feminine, subtle and classy. The main advantage the whore had was she was about 20 years younger. A younger woman – that’s original! But you’d think he could find better than her, for that kind of money. Was it good, or bad, that the whore didn’t seem worth it?
They walked through a large garden-room at the back of the house, stylish décor and long windows looking over expansive lawns. There was a door in the far right corner of the room, which Blondie pushed open.
‘Please come through.’
Dawn followed, having to catch and push the heavy door as it swung back. The girl was tottering down a staircase leading to the basement. It was dark – the only illumination came from two lines of red fairy-lights hanging along the walls. Where the fuck was Blondie taking her? It would’ve been intimidating if the girl wasn’t so wussy. Dawn steadied herself on the banister as she clopped down the wooden steps. The door swung closed behind. An efficient click-clack as it sealed. Ominously mechanical – sounded like the twist of a robotic jailer’s keys. The stairs opened out into a medium-sized room. Dozens of red candles flickering in the half-dark – flames dancing with shadows.
‘If you’d like to wait here, Mrs Henfield.’ Gesturing to piece of empty floor. ‘And I’ll just…’ pointing through the leather-strap curtains ahead.
The perturbed visitor moved to the prescribed spot as the girl vanished through the leather. Dawn began to realise she’d misread the situation. What was actually going on? The artwork down here was weird – painted devils and gargoyles leering out of the gloom. All the demons looked violent, seductive… and feminine. Hard, stone floor, strange furniture, spooky taxidermy animals. An ornately carved battle-axe mounted on the far wall. Steel glowing and glinting in the candlelight. Looked genuinely sharp. As if someone had whetted it recently. Holy shit! A fucking battle-axe! What sort of place was this? One thing was obvious: this wasn’t Blondie’s house. A tall grandfather clock loomed overhead. It was nearly 1pm. Felt like she was in some kind of waiting room.
Shit! Who was she waiting for?
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