Housewife to Whore 01 - The Beginning

Chapter 1: Left Out and Lit Up

It was a chilly March evening--the kind where the cold doesn't bite, it lingers. I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the curves of my black backless dress. The fabric clung to my hips like it had been poured on. It dipped low across my chest, showcasing just enough cleavage to be called dangerous. Paired with my 8-inch black platform stilettos, I was sex in silhouette.

My makeup was flawless--smoky eyes. Red lips so bold they bled power. My lash extensions fluttered like weapons, and my long acrylic nails--glossed and sharpened--tapped absently against the kitchen counter as I waited.

This was supposed to be our night.

My phone buzzed.

Sorry babe. The boys wanted to go out one last time before the trip to Japan. Raincheck?

I stared at the message.

Our son was at his grandmother's. I'd planned the night. I'd shaved, soaked, dressed, painted, and perfumed. And he was blowing me off for cheap drinks and low-stakes poker with men who didn't even know my name.

I texted back.

It's supposed to be date night. You leave tomorrow.

His reply came seconds later.

Sorry, babe. We'll reschedule when I'm back.

Reschedule.

Like I was a dentist appointment or a medical appointment.

I put the phone down gently. Took a breath. Stared at my reflection.

I looked like a million bucks.

I felt like a loaded gun.

And then I said it--soft, final.

"Fuck this."

I opened my phone, pulled up Ryder, and searched for a hotel bar--something upscale, private, and expensive enough to attract the kind of men who liked to look without asking.

I found one. Booked a ride. Five minutes.

I grabbed my trench coat and purse. As I slipped the coat over my shoulders, its weight felt ceremonial, like armor.

Another buzz.

The car was here.

A black Chrysler 300.

The driver, a broad-shouldered Black man with a kind face, turned slightly as I stepped in.

"Damira?"

"Yes."

He didn't ask anything else. He didn't need to.

For most of the ride, I stewed in silence. I imagined my husband laughing with his friends, a drink in hand, while I sat in full glam with no one to see. The anger warmed me more than the heater ever could.

By the time we pulled into the hotel, that anger had shifted--mutated into something darker.

Something hungrier.

I wasn't going to drink alone tonight. I was going to get what I wanted.

The bar glowed gold and low-lit, buzzing with the expensive quiet that came with aged scotch and business-class regret.

I shed my coat at the bar like a curtain rising on the main act.

Heads turned.

I ordered whiskey on the rocks. No small talk. Just the burn I needed in my throat.

Five minutes later, he approached.

Mid-twenties. White guy. Bearded, athletic, cocky--but in that performative way that said he was drunk enough to try and lucky enough not to care.

"Whoa... Angela White, or am I already hammered?"

I turned slowly. Let him take in the look.

"I'm Damira," I said with a smile that felt like a blade. "What's your name?"

"Daniel."

"You got a room here, Daniel?"

He blinked. "Uh... yeah."

I downed my drink.

"Then let's go."

His room was standard: king bed, big TV, overcompensating minibar--the kind of generic luxury that made people feel special without ever being memorable.

I dropped my trench coat on the floor like a challenge.

He stared.

"So baby, what do you wanna do?" I asked, licking the words like sugar off my lips.

"I want to fuck you in every hole. Twice. Fuck up your makeup. Cover you in cum."

I grinned. "Good."

I sucked him slowly, methodically, like I was testing his patience. When he grabbed the back of my head and shoved deeper, I let him. The taste of his pre-cum hit my tongue like salt.

He moaned.

"I don't wanna come yet. I wanna fuck you."

"Then fuck me, Daddy."

He flipped me. Fucked me hard. Fast. Savage. Every thrust hit my G-spot like a threat. I screamed for it. Begged for it.

"You like this, bitch?" he grunted.

"I'm your bitch. Your slut. Your dirty, naughty whore," I moaned back.

We came.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Until we both collapsed.

I woke up the next morning, sore, glowing, and sticky with the proof of the night before.

I stood slowly and took in the scene. My dress had been dry-cleaned, folded, and pressed like nothing had ever happened.

On the nightstand: an envelope.

Inside: $5,000. In hundreds. And a note.

"Thank you. You were divine."

I smiled. Slipped it into my purse.

By the time I slid into the back seat of another town car, heading home, the question had already formed in my mind:

What if I did that again?

It wasn't shame I felt.

It was... power.

If it's that easy to get paid and get laid... why the hell wouldn't I do it again?

And just like that, the seed was planted.

The housewife was gone.

What if I became a high-dollar whore?