Parallel Tracks

Lit has an "Author's Hangout," where some of us share ideas and shitposts, and this story was inspired by a thread about tropes in erotica stories. So. It's my version of a trope, I suppose, even more than any of my other stories.

Like all of those, this one connects to the rest. The link here comes from a pair of lawyers whom we met in "Smoke and Roses." That was a Halloween Contest submission, and so is this! Read all the contest entries and make sure to vote up your favorites.

* * *

I woke up early on Saturday morning.

This wasn't unusual; my gym opens at six-thirty on weekends, and I like to be there when it does. While most of the world likes to sleep in, I never have. But that Saturday, I woke up even earlier. It took me a moment to decide why: was it the dawn starting to glow through my window? A bird singing on the sill? Some sort of noise in the basement?

It wasn't until I swung my legs down toward the floor and sat there, staring out my bedroom window, that I realized what had woken me. Outside walked two women, middle-aged, in lycra and those less-expensive parkas that I don't often see in my neighborhood, walking along with some sort of terrier as the sun came up. My window was cracked open just a little, mostly because I run hot and I love fresh air even in October, and through the screen I could hear the women talking.

Laughing. That's what had woken me up. Laughter. As they cleaned up after the dog.

I watched them from my shadows, marveling as my mind often did, wondering what their lives must be like... that they were able to laugh their asses off while picking up a fresh dog turd. This was not something I had any experience with, and it definitely wasn't something I thought I'd find funny. And yet here were these two ladies, finding joy in shit.

I could not relate. It felt like they and I were on two different train tracks, moving in the same direction, yet never ever meeting. There was a lesson there. I just was far, far too busy to heed it.

I was too busy for most things that week. No, that month. Hell, that year: the firm was expanding, that stupid lawsuit was in the works, and I was fielding five or six phone calls an hour, except on weekends when the number was more like three. But I wasn't ever too busy for the gym, I reminded myself savagely, which was why I forgot about the women and their dog, left my sleeping husband in our bed, and got to my stairstepper as quickly as I could. Before someone from work tried to call me.

I wanted change, and I needed change. And I could not get change.

* * *

"I'm picking up our costumes this afternoon," my husband told me a few days later.

"What?" For a flashing moment, I had no clue what the fuck he was talking about. My mind was still wandering toward those laughing poo-pickers I'd seen on Saturday morning, wondering what it was like to have that kind of life. Different train line, different track, different destination, and if I'd thought about it a whole lot deeper, I suspected I might actually decide their lives were better than mine. Which was why I didn't want to think about it a whole lot deeper. "Come again?"

"Costumes. For Halloween." There was a time when Travis and I had been flirtatious, I remembered with a small bitter twinge, a time when me saying come again would have led to a pun, then to sex, then to an orgasm. But we'd been married long enough, it seemed, that Travis was past that kind of thing. "Derek's party? At his house?"

"Oh. Fuck." I blinked a few times, remembering. "Yeah. What day is that, again?"

"Next Tuesday. Halloween night."

"Tuesday I think Jeanne and Tom have scheduled a meeting with me to go over the deposition. It might go late."

He didn't frown, really, or at least not all that much: just a pucker of his lips and a wrinkle of his forehead. "How late?"

"I don't know. Late. It probably depends on what kind of press release they need me to write. What time is your party?"

"It's Derek's party, Anna."

"Fine, hon. What time is Derek's party?" I was starting to get sick of this kind of thing. I didn't remember Travis being quite such a pedant when we'd been dating. He'd been fun, sometimes. Now he had that weird little way of turning everything into a contest to see who could worry about the pettiest bullshit. I wondered whether he'd picked that up at work.

"Starts at seven."

"Cool. Where?"

He looked at me like I had two heads, and I wondered for a moment whether he'd already told me all this. I'll admit that sometimes I've stopped listening to him. "It's at Derek's house, Anna."

"Is it! I love Derek's house." I wondered whether I sounded too happy about that. Derek had an amazing home. Hell, from what I could tell, Derek had an amazing everything. I shook my head, desperate for something to say because I was afraid Travis might hear something in my voice. "Is he going to have that band there? The one he had over the summer?" He'd booked some local group to do music at his annual company party, because that was the kind of guy he was: live music at a pool party. It had been a memorable band, though that wasn't the reason why my mind went to that party.

That goddamn pool party.

Travis shook his head a little irritably. "Why on earth would I know the answer to that? You know how these things work: I'm hardly the kind of guy who gets enough facetime with the CEO for him to discuss his entertainment preferences."

"Sure, sure." I went back to chopping my onion. We had the personal chef, obviously, but that was only twelve meals a week and I felt obscurely that I should know how to chop an onion myself. So I needed to concentrate, but that was difficult now that I was remembering Derek's pool party. "What, uh, what costume did we decide on?" I'd had three ideas, ideas that Travis had insisted on overthinking, and so I'd gotten sick of discussing them and left it all up to him.

"The crime one. The arrest theme."

"Oh." That was the one I'd been least excited by. "The one where I'm a whore."

"Stop, Anna. Not a whore. A prostitute." He was reading something technical while he leaned against the counter. "We talked about this."

"You talked about it. I talked about wanting to go as a flight attendant and a pilot."

"You could be a drug dealer and it would still be the same theme. I mean, if you'd rather not go as a prostitute."

"Or we could combine both," I bristled, finally making through half my onion. "Sex and drugs. How about I just tell your coworkers I'm dressed as a crackwhore?"

He looked up from his article, still carefully un-frowning. "Fine. Be a burglar or something, but the costume I ordered is for a prostitute. You'd need to source your own stuff." He brightened. "The police costume is really, really good."

"Fine. Then I'll wear that. You can be the drug dealer." Or the whore, I thought, and the idea made me smile a little.

"Ah, no. I ordered a man's police outfit." He made an awkward gesture toward his chest. "I don't think it would fit you right."

"Oh, sure," I seethed, "because clearly, my boobs won't fit in a cop costume. These are prostitute-boobs, not police-boobs."

He just stared at me that way he'd started to lately, over the past few years since he'd become a department head. Travis' rise at Derek's company had been fast and significant, bringing us an amazing lifestyle with his talent for design. But ever since he'd moved into management, he'd started to treat me less like a wife and more like an employee. "We talked about this," he repeated, more slowly.

"About me having whore-boobs?" A few years ago, this too would have become a joke and, then, an orgasm. Not anymore. For an instant, unreasonably, I began to wonder about the ladies who'd scooped their dog's poop outside my house on Saturday.

I bet they'd been laid more recently than me.

"Come on, Anna," he reasoned, trying to soothe me a little too late, "you're blowing this way out of proportion. It's just a costume."

"Sure. A costume all your coworkers will see."

"Kenny and his wife are going as a penis and a vagina. Mikey Sailors' wife is going as a French maid. Petey from Sales? He's wearing a kilt, and he's been telling everyone how he won't have underwear on." He shrugged.

"Oh. Joy. I'll have to make a special point to greet Petey from Sales and ask about his underwear, then."

"We talked about this! You look amazing. You said you didn't mind a revealing costume!" He did that thing where he raised his hands, like a judge trying to shut down an unruly defendant. He'd for damn sure learned that at work, too. "It's going to be fun. You'll fit right in."

"Oh, I'm sure I will," I sighed, picking up the other half of the onion. "Fuck. Whatever. Seven o'clock Tuesday at Derek's house. Me as a whore. You as a cop." I shook my head. "I'm sure there'll be handcuffs, too?"

"Yes, they came with the costume. And... prostitute, Anna. Not whore."

"Whatever." And my name isn't Anna, dammit, I didn't add. That had been last year's argument, or the year before. I picked my knife back up, focused, and started slicing.

* * *

That pool party. That goddamn pool party.

I hadn't been back to Derek's palace up on the North Shore, since that goddamn pool party. Hadn't seen Derek at all, in fact. I wasn't sure how he'd treat me at a Halloween party, especially one where I was dressed like an incarcerated hooker.

But that damn pool party had been memorable. I'd been in a funk that day too, thinking about work, and how great it would be if I could just walk away and go hike the Appalachian Trail or some shit like that. I'd wanted to skip the gym. I'd been unhappy when Travis had reminded me about the party, and I'd only gone because he'd stressed, yet again, how important it was that he networked.

Meaning, important to both of us. Important to our lifestyle. Because I made excellent money doing PR at Norbera, but he was a department head at St Claire Tekkscape and made real money. Money that allowed us to buy a nice house on the kind of street where ladies came from other neighborhoods to walk their dogs. Travis had more brains than he needed, but no social skills at all; he needed me to handle that part, and I was good at it. And so I'd frumped my way to my closet, selected a bikini, and headed off for some fun in the July sun.

Travis' work parties tended to go on awhile, mostly because of the charm and charisma of his CEO. Derek St Claire had made his name as a tech engineer at a bunch of startups, always trading up to a better company, time and again over twenty years until, with a drumroll from the tech industry, he'd launched his own company. The company had made quite a splash, attracting top-end talent like my husband, and so Derek was now a household name.

A tall, affable guy, Derek was 56 but you'd never have known it. He had the drive and ambition of a twentysomething, the energy of a thirtysomething, and the distinguished looks of a successful fortysomething. Only his hair, fogbank-grey and still thick, clued you in that he was already at an age where some men would have thought of retirement.

But not Derek. He was the kind of self-made billionaire who seemed like he would be able to last thirty or forty more years, if not forever. His company was constantly launching new ventures, and Travis was always telling me there were even more in the pipeline. His social media posts moved stock markets and got other peoples' projects greenlit. He was an absolute rarity, a wealthy CEO that nobody seemed to hate.

He'd never been married, from what little I could tell. There had been a time he'd been what people call an "eligible bachelor," and although he'd definitely played the field a bit, he seemed to have emerged unscathed from all those entanglements. There were four or five relatively famous women he'd acknowledged dating at various times, almost none of whom had anything bad to say about him.

This had to be due to his manner, which combined the best of Johnny Carson with a touch of James Bond and maybe a bit of a less reckless Han Solo. But I knew there was more to it, at least on the romantic side: the fellow was really very good-looking, fit in the way a fellow gymgoer notices, a man with intense animal magnetism and that ability to feel like you were the most important person in the world when he was talking to you.

There should have been no reason for me to know anything about my husband's boss' physique, nor his one-on-one manner, and I wouldn't have. If it wasn't for that damn pool party.

It had been fun enough, really, once I'd cajoled Travis into participating a little bit. We'd done a chicken fight in the big pool, where I'd won against one of the other wives and then lost to two more. We'd jumped into the cornhole tournament. We'd roasted hot dogs over one of Derek's many firepits. But by the end of the evening, after the sun had gone down and the employees with children had already headed home, Travis wanted to play pool with some of his department members in Derek's fully appointed billiard room.

"Go for it, hon," I'd told him. I'd had a few beers, and figured I should sweat them off. "I'm going to do a few laps out here."

"Have fun," he'd beamed, with one of the kisses he gave out more and more rarely these days, and then I'd let myself drift away into the thick chlorine bliss of Derek St Claire's swimming pool. I'd been alone out there, swimming strongly and easily, my hair streaming behind me in the warm, soft water, coming around for a fifth lap when I'd heard a strong, rich voice rolling toward me from beneath some wisteria near the deep end.

"It's almost ten at night," the voice had called, and I could tell its owner was smiling.

I'd stopped, treading water, glancing around to see whether the voice could have been talking to anyone else, but no. The night had been empty but for myself and the man among the wisteria. I'd cleared my throat. "So?"

"So," the voice had gone on, almost playfully, "it's no longer pool time. It's now hot-tub time."

"Oh?" That's right, I'd reminded myself: there was a hot tub over there, shrouded in leaves, a private little grotto all its own. "Are those the rules of the house, or something?"

He'd laughed. "If I said they were, would you come join me in the hot tub?"

I'd recognized enough about the voice to guess that it was Mr St Claire himself out there in the hot water, and I'd been more than sober enough to realize that if he wanted to talk to me, in a hot tub or out of one, it could do good things for Travis' career. I'd thought rapidly. "I don't know. Try it."

"Okay." I'd heard a small splash. "You know, ma'am, the rules at this house say that ten pm is the latest time the pool is to be used. The hot tub goes all night, though." The smile had never left his voice. "I'd be tickled if you'd come and share it with me."

"Tickled?" I'd laughed. I'd always enjoyed flirting, but it had always been something my husband wasn't good at. I'd been attracted to him for other reasons, thankfully, but I did miss flirting. "What are we, in third grade?" I'd obeyed, though, and I'd known I wasn't just doing it as proxy face-time for my husband; I was also doing it because, dammit, Derek St Claire was an impressive man, and having a conversation with him struck me as something interesting.

"I hope not," he'd laughed, "or I wouldn't be able to invite you in."

"No?" My feet had slapped wetly across the pool deck in the warm summer night, water cascading down my swimsuit and out of my hair. I wrung it out as I walked up some steps toward the hot tub. "Why's that?"

"Because if we were third graders, you'd still have cooties." The hot tub had a purple light, I remembered, and it had shone off his teeth. "Besides, I don't think you were in third grade at the same time I was."

"You're probably right about that!" I'd said, joining in his laugh. He'd had a lovely smile and sharp, shining eyes that had swept up and down my body as I'd stepped to the edge. "I think I was in third grade about twenty years ago? Maybe less?"

His laugh hadn't stopped. He'd lounged easily in the water under a screen of bubbles, his arms up on the tile surround. Curly white hair dripped from his chest. "Twenty years ago, I was starting to think about turning forty." He'd drifted across to me and offered his hand. "Don't slip."

"Thank you." His fingers had engulfed mine, strong and certain, and I'd kept his hand once I felt the warm water close around my body. "I'm Anna. Anna Kepler. I'm Travis' wife."

"I know exactly who you are. I do my homework." He'd shaken quickly and then guided me to a molded seat across from him. The water had felt amazing, almost soupy. "I know you do public relations for Norbera Corp, and I know you've been instrumental in the strategy around their communications during the lawsuit they're dealing with."

"I do, and I am." I'd copied his posture, stretching out, my arms high. I'd been on my guard at once, in the same way any woman is always on guard around any man, but I'd known from the start that there'd be certain indignities I'd have to agree to simply by being in the tub with him. He'd be looking at my breasts, for one thing, and I'd be expected to flirt. There might even be contact under the water, though I'd not gotten quite that vibe from him. "Don't tell me you want to talk shop tonight, Mr St Claire."

He'd smiled smoothly. "Norbera's lawsuit is completely inconsequential to me, so no. Don't you worry. But I'll just say I've been keeping up with your messaging, and I think you're doing an amazing job."

I'd looked at him squarely, seeking signs of teasing and finding none. "Thanks. It's always nice to hear compliments from people who know how hard these things can be. But it's not really my strategy; I'm like number three in my department. I'll make sure to let my boss know you appreciate his efforts."

"Ah, but it's not your boss here in my hot tub," he'd chuckled, "so please, Ms Kepler, take the compliment."

"I certainly will." I'd settled slowly down. It's impossible to be tense in a hot tub. "Thank you. I do appreciate it. And please, Mr St Claire, call me Anna."

"Anna is what your husband calls you." His eyes had remained sharp. "I know that's not the name you prefer."

Well. Almost impossible to be tense in a hot tub. "Isn't it?"

"I told you, I do my homework." He'd waited, smiling easily, his whole being cool and calm. I'd felt a touch under the water, far up the outside of my thigh, his toe. I'd decided it was incidental. "You call yourself Anna because he asked you to. Professionally. I have to admit, that surprised me to hear."

"Why?"

He'd shrugged. The touch had returned, softly, and this time it hadn't moved off. "Every time I've met you, you haven't struck me as the kind of woman who would agree to do something like that."

"In fairness, my name sorta sounds like a stripper." I'd waited another instant for the toe to move, but it hadn't. I'd ignored it again. "My bosses at Norbera didn't ask me to change it, but I could tell they were glad I decided to."

"I like your name. Your real name, I mean." He'd stared at my eyes. I remembered I'd been impressed he hadn't been ogling my tits. My position in the tub must have been giving him a chance at it. "If I were your boss, I'd never expect you to change a name you liked."

I'd giggled. "Well, then you'd be stuck with a PR VP named Misty."

"No," he'd shot back at once, still quite calm, "I don't think I would. I think I'd be stuck with a Chief Communications Officer named Misty."

I'd kept the smile frozen to my face, but inside I'd felt a tingle that had nothing to do with either the temperature of the water or the toe on my thigh. I'd cocked my head, my hair dipping into the hot water. I wondered whether my heartbeat was visible from across the tub, so suddenly did it start quickening. "That's an interesting thing to say," I'd told him very carefully.

He'd shrugged once more, and this time I'd noticed a glass of wine by his elbow. "Like I said, I've been very impressed by your performance at Norbera. You're keeping your nerve in a difficult time." He'd taken a sip. "I particularly noticed your answer during the press conference last February, on the tenth. Especially the question from Andrew Packard of the Times."

It had become extremely difficult to keep my jaw from falling open, I remembered. The question had been devious because Packard was smart, and my boss had tried to answer it, but I'd laid a hand on his arm and I'd stepped up to the mic and I'd hit it out of the park. "You do do your homework, Mr St Claire."

"Call me Derek, Misty."

"Okay, Derek." I'd felt my face flush, and I'd doubted that had anything to do with the steamy water, either. At some point, I'd realized, the toe on my thigh had become two toes, moving in a tiny circle along my skin. I'd decided it was just the drift of his feet under the force of the bubbles. "Chief Communications Officer," I'd mused, my brain working quickly.

It was quite impossible.

"I'd love to start thinking about putting together a pay package, if that's something you'd like to discuss."

"In a hot tub?" I'd laughed, the notion ridiculous. "With a glass of wine?"

"The pay would most definitely be high. Say, higher than what one of my department heads makes." He'd smiled warmly. "As for the wine? I'm sorry. When I brought this out, I wasn't expecting anyone to be out there. Imagine the thrill when I saw you swimming." He'd taken another sip, then reached his glass across the bubbles toward me. "I suppose we'll have to share."

I'd taken the glass, my fingers slipping along his. "Cooties and all," I'd toasted, taking a drink. Mostly, I'd done it because I needed time to think. If he'd been offering me a CCO job, that would mean I couldn't possibly accept. I'd needed time to think of the words I'd need to turn him down without ruffling his ego and, just maybe, threatening my husband. "This is outstanding wine."

"Chateau Lorenz des Pierrots," he'd nodded, pleased, "but it's the 1986, sadly, not the 1984. I made sure to pick up a few cases. I'll send you home with a bottle." I'd smiled my thanks and raised the glass before I'd handed it back, well aware I'd probably just had a sip of something that cost over a thousand per bottle. "I'm happy you like it."

"I do." I'd put on my best smile, the one I was careful to give my mother-in-law. His whole foot had now found my leg, and at some point I'd started replying; my own toes, without my even noticing, had begun to nudge against his long leg. "Unfortunately, Mr St Claire, there's no way I'd be able to publicly comment on issues involving my own husband's work. I think that would be a tough circle to square, ethically." I'd arched an eyebrow. "Suppose there's a lawsuit, or a recall. If I'm the one crafting the message, I wouldn't be able to sell it credibly. And god forbid I'd be called to testify."

"Travis' work is excellent," he'd replied crisply, taking the glass back for his own drink. "He'd never be involved in a product-liability concern. And if he was, there'd be ways around involving you."

"It's still a conflict of interest, Mr St Claire." I'd taken the glass back from him. "Sorry. Derek, I mean." The wine, on top of my beers, had been powerful. Somewhere, I'd become aware that his whole leg had begun pressing against mine down beneath the bubbles, in another world. I'd decided to pretend that maybe the closeness was unavoidable, something to do with the way the tub was designed, but I'd known better. It had felt good, comfortable.

I hadn't minded the attention, honestly. I'd known I should mind it. But I'd pressed my leg back onto his, my smile glued on. "There's nothing I can say to tempt you, Misty?" he'd asked one more time.

"I'm afraid not, Derek." The night had pressed close around us. "I'm very flattered, though, as well as grateful."

"It's for the best, I suppose." He'd nodded, gesturing for me to finish the glass. "I admit I'd be distracted around you."

I'd gone still, sober at once. The indignities would continue, clearly, but that didn't seem like a very big deal when our legs were touching so closely. "Would you now."

"Oh, absolutely." He'd grinned. "Now that I don't have to hire you, I can tell you how beautiful you are without having to file something through HR." I'd joined him in an easy laugh, both of us quite familiar with the American corporate truth that it's only sexual harassment if someone wants to think it is. He'd clearly decided I wouldn't want to think it, and just as obviously he didn't either.

And so I'd smirked, pleased, the attention going to my head as quickly as the wine. "That's a very sweet thing to say, Derek." Obscurely, I'd felt I should reciprocate. "It's always nice to be admired, especially when it's coming from a man as attractive as you are." My face, I'd known, had gone quite crimson by then. His leg rose under the bubbles, the foot dragging along my thigh, past my knee, and then neatly over the top of my shin. And just like that, his foot was inside my leg. I'd pretended not to notice, because after all, I'd just told him he was hot.

"You're very kind." He'd held himself still, just smiling, letting me realize the universal truth of the Game Of Footsie: if he's got his foot between your legs, then you've got your foot between his, too. "I have to say, I think Travis is wrong. I love the name Misty."

"Do you?" I'd cracked a new smile, the old high school jokes coming back. They'd all called me pole dancer. I'd chosen to think it meant they thought I was sexy, but I knew it was a play on my name. "I used to get teased for it, but I like it. It sounds mysterious."

"That it does." His toe twitched again, this time along the inside of my knee. "Teased... why? Because of what you said? That it sounds like a stripper name?"

"Yes."

"That's ridiculous." He'd leaned across, his muscles bunching, to take the empty wineglass from my slack fingers; I'd not even remembered finishing the last of it. "No stripper looks like you."

I'd giggled despite myself. "No?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. They tend to be tawdry. Classless. Well, when they're performing, anyway." He'd set the glass carefully back on the tiles, then cocked his head and watched me.

I'd been very, very conscious of his closeness. Of his leg, of his foot, of his eyes. Of my own nipples, which I could feel poking through the swimsuit; this is a known danger of hot tubs, of course. I'd been aware of his body, of his near-nakedness, of the power he had over my husband. Of his words to me, and his open admiration. I'd stirred, in the strange position of groping for something to say. "I think I'll choose to take that as a compliment, Derek."

"I very much intend it as one, Misty." He'd held my gaze a few seconds too long, then smiled a cunning little smirk. "Well. If you ever think about making a change at Norbera, do please give me a call. I'd be very interested in working with you."

"I'm flattered. I'll remember."

"Good." He'd glanced over his shoulder at the big holographic clock by the poolhouse door, where the digits read 10:15. "They say you shouldn't spend too long in a hot tub, and I really do need to get back inside to check on my other guests. Your husband, for example, and his department." His teeth flashed. "You're welcome to stay out here, if you wish, or get back in the pool."

I'd risked a wink. "House rules are suspended for me?"

"For you? I'd suspend a great many things." He'd gathered his feet beneath him and risen smoothly from the water like some sort of nautical god, his wiry body obviously old, but still in wonderful shape. And when he stood all the way up, of course, I couldn't stop my eyes from running down him, a flickering gestalten look to see who I'd been sharing my space with.

Until I'd gasped. I'd heard myself do it, and when I'd raised my eyes unwillingly back up, he'd been smiling back down at me. "Should I apologize?" he'd asked me smoothly, adjusting himself right in front of me. And he'd needed to, because what I'd seen outlined inside his wet shorts was definitely something that needed adjusting.

I'd made myself look away, down into the bubbles. "Oh, no need, please Derek." I'd been scarlet. "I shouldn't have stared."

"Not at all. We have nothing to be ashamed of." He'd finished, getting what looked to be an impressive cock back to a more comfortable angle... but it had still been obstinately, visibly hard. "You can choose to take that as a compliment too, Misty."

"I... I will, Derek," I stammered, mostly because I didn't feel like there was anything else I could say. "Thank you."

"No. Thank you." He'd sprung from the hot tub then, still gym-lithe, and nodded down at me. "I'll leave the towel for you. I guess it's my fate to drip tonight." Despite myself, I'd giggled. "Thank you for coming, Misty. I look forward to seeing you again."

"The, uh, the pleasure was mine." Goddamn pool party.

* * *

But he hadn't seen me again. I hadn't gone to the fall awards thing at Travis' work, nor the employee retreat, and now I'd be going back to Derek's house dressed as... well, as a whore.

Wonderful.

I seethed my way through work that Tuesday, then seethed during the mock deposition with Tom and Jeanne. They could tell that something was up. "Shall we pick this up another time?"

"Fuck that. Let's finish," I'd seethed, and I'd still been seething in the car, until finally I was standing in front of my costume on the bed in our huge bedroom, the bedroom where I'd sit sometimes and watch people walk by and wonder whether they had it better than me, and I'd seethed some more. Because it was hard to see where it got much worse than wearing this to Derek St Claire's house. "Christ. You're sure someone's going to be dressed like a French maid?"

"Mike Sailors' wife. Yes."

I frowned. "Are her tits smaller than mine?"

"Her what?"

"Her tits. Her boobs. Breasts." I didn't usually use language like that with Travis, but what can I say? I was, after all, seething.

He blinked. "Um. Does it matter?"

"Honey," I grated, "if I'm going to be showing what this costume seems to imply that I'll be showing, I don't want to be the only woman there with half her boobs hanging out."

"Oh." He licked his lips. Transparently, my husband did not want to be in the position of commenting on some other woman's tits around me. As expected, he dithered. "I haven't really seen her in awhile..."

"Forget it." I sniffed. "Fine. Whatever. I'll wear this thing, and I'll be the best-looking goddamn whore anyone at that party has ever seen. Fuck it."

His smile was somehow watery. "That's the spirit, babe!" He looked away. "But, uh, remember, you're a prostitute. Maybe even a high-priced escort. Respectable." He shrugged. "Not a whore. That sounds nasty."

"'Respectable.' Sure. That's why Officer Travis is bringing me to jail. Because cops always arrest respectable callgirls."

"What's a callgirl?"

"It's an escort, hon," I sighed, tired of it all. The house was nice, the cars, the maid service, the personal chef, the boat, but dealing with him? With this? Right now? This made me wish I was walking a terrier through someone else's neighborhood, laughing over dogshit. "Fuck it," I said again, summoning a smile, "it is what it is."

* * *

We had our car service drop us off at Derek's front gate, where a few of his people ran a shuttle service using his golf carts. When I'd come to Derek's home before, I'd always been impressed by his staff; I've never had full-time servants, and we're not quite in the tax bracket where I ever will, so it was interesting to me to see how they acted. This time, I was fairly impressed that they avoided gawking at me, because I knew damn well how I looked.

For starters, there was relief on my end because the couple arriving before us, who Travis part-identified as "some guy from Quality Assurance. I think his name is Todd?" contained a wife, or maybe a girlfriend, with a witch costume that made mine look almost tame: she had stuffed herself into a black leather corset over a pair of skimpy black boyshorts, and that was literally it. Under a long cloak she could keep dramatically closed.

So I breathed easier. Apparently, it really was that kind of party, and so my boobs wouldn't be too out of place. Nor my ass, I supposed, which I could feel hanging out of the bottom of the miniskirt.

I was doing better with the shoes, at least. Travis had paid for the best costumes available, which meant genuine hooker shoes with heels at least an inch taller than I was used to. The walk from our front door to the car had been a little sketchy, bad enough that I'd had to hold on to Travis' arm; he'd been concerned enough to ask how I was doing. "I'll figure it out," I'd told him.

"Good. Because if you don't, the handcuff thing won't really work out." He had this big idea about a grand entrance involving the cuffs, but I knew I'd need to be able to actually walk if I wanted to pull it off. By the time I slid off the golf cart into Derek's impressive courtyard, I felt secure enough not to wobble too much. The cart before us was doing a neat little U-turn as I put on my best smile, adjusted the truly dazzling bra the costume had included, and allowed my darling police officer to steer me toward where our host waited, shaking hands with Todd and his underdressed date. "Happy Halloween, Mr St Claire!" called Travis as we stepped up. "You remember my wife, Anna."

"I remember your wife Misty," he corrected, and I could tell my husband was startled as our host took my hand. "I'm always charmed." He wore a really nice suit and tie, and I shook my head as I took him in. He looked distinguished, Presidential, and very handsome. My mind went back to his foot on my leg, his obvious interest in me, and I wondered why I'd never realized how sexy older guys could be.

"Thank you for having us, Derek." He'd given Travis a warm clap on the shoulder, and now led me toward the bar with my hand in his; with no other golf cart in sight, I assumed he wanted to guide us across the lawn.

"What are you dressed as, Mr St Claire? James Bond?"

Derek smiled back at Travis over his shoulder. We were drifting through the outskirts of the event, where cowboys and zombies mingled under the umbrellas. Not a few of them watched me as I passed. "I'm dressed as the scariest thing imaginable, Travis: a lawyer." We all laughed. "It's just this way." We passed through a gate, and I was very conscious of my hand in his. When he spoke to me, his voice was calm. "I was afraid you wouldn't come."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?" I asked, though I knew.

"I thought maybe there'd been some awkwardness between us. After the hot tub a few months ago." He smiled easily, still clasping my hand. "My... excitement about our conversation."

I was ready for this. I'd been thinking about it a lot, and not just because it was a hard-on. I needed to strike the right note with him: he was a powerful man, and not just where my husband was concerned. So I let my forehead wrinkle as though I didn't know what he was talking about. "When you gave me a compliment?"

His face cleared as he nodded, pleased with me. "Yes. Exactly that."

I shrugged. "Compliments are never awkward, Derek."

"I'm relieved to hear that. I meant no disrespect, at all." He finally released my hand and gestured me toward his bar. "It's just that you didn't show up for Travis' award presentation, and then you missed the volleyball retreat."

I matched him stride for stride with Travis trailing behind, already talking to one of his work friends. "I was working. We can't all have jobs that let us hang around at pool parties or volleyball games." I made sure I gave him a smile, to remove offense.

"You can if you'd come to work for me." He said it in a low voice, glancing around. I gathered it wasn't something he wanted talked about. I hadn't mentioned our conversation to Travis at all, mostly because I didn't want him to know his boss had offered me more money than he paid Travis.

But there were other reasons, too.

I felt a little buzz already, and the bar was still ahead of us. The hot tub came back to me then, with all its little thrills. "I'd be a distraction, Derek. You said it yourself." He nodded, looking sideways at my costume. No, at my chest. I found myself arching a little, putting a little shimmy in my step, and at last he turned his head to look openly. "See?" I laughed.

"I definitely see," he nodded, joining in my laugh. "Maybe it wasn't just our conversation that excited me."

I knew I was blushing, and glanced back over my shoulder to check how far back Travis was. "I didn't bring a bathing suit to this event, sadly."

"So very sadly," he sighed. "Well. I'm afraid I can't let you monopolize me, Misty. At least not yet. I'm off to greet the other guests."

"Thank you for having us, Derek." I made sure my smile was the warmest one I had, watching as he strode off to charm the next wife that came through the gate. When my husband came up with his friend, I nodded toward his handcuffs. "Go ahead and put those on, Travis. Might as well make a decent entrance."

"Yeah." His workmate, whose name I didn't recognize, was an engineer. So he stared dumbfounded at my tits while Travis cuffed me. It was going to be a long party, I could just tell.

* * *

The wine was really, really excellent.

That was my main thought as I paused, after about ninety minutes of solid schmoozing, to lean against Derek's massive fireplace and take a break from the whirl of conversation in his ballroom. Before me stretched a sea of Tekkscape executives and their spouses, a well-paid gathering of bespectacled nerds and trophy dates, hard chargers and their cool, passionless spouses.

I sipped my really, really excellent wine and wondered, suddenly, what these other people thought when they looked at me, my body on full whorish display. Some of them, I knew, wanted me. Did they want my life? Or did they want my body? Or just my wine? The thought made me smile around my glass.

I didn't notice Derek St Claire coming toward me until he was already nearly there, when it was obvious it was me he was coming to see. To talk to. I composed myself hurriedly and started to trawl for words. "Having fun?" he asked easily, leaning beside me against a high mantelpiece he'd imported from Europe.

"This is wonderful." I touched his arm. "You're ready for me to monopolize you again?"

He chuckled. "I wouldn't put it like that, but I did have something I wanted to ask you. It's been on my mind."

"I'm intrigued." I turned so that I was facing him, my tits on full display. I assumed he would look at them, and I discovered I didn't mind. Partly because the wine was really, really good... "Ask away, Derek."

He nodded, and I noticed the lines on his face crinkling as he smiled. "So. Why Anna?"

"My middle name is Ann. I used that at first, professionally, but I thought 'Anna' flowed better."

"It certainly does. And you started using it at Travis' suggestion?"

I shrugged. It had actually been pretty mutual. "I wasn't against it. Like I said, I used to get teased. And not in the good way." Fuck. Where had that come from? I stilled my tongue at once, blaming the wine.

"True." He'd already picked up on it, but was far too polite to make it a big deal. "Not all teases are created equal, are they? Schoolyard taunts? Mockery? Those things are soul-crushing."

"Yes." I took a deep breath, but I am a PR professional; I am used to confronting the elephant in the room. It's what I get paid to do. "While something like touching in a hot tub? Where is that on the scale?"

"That is lovely, I always think." He sipped from his glass. "Two people share space in an intimate way? The conversation flows smoothly? They smile? They laugh? They share wine? Nearly unclothed?" He spread his hands. "Touching isn't even really teasing, in that context. Is it? It's more like a natural part of the experience."

"A natural part of hot-tubbing is playing footsie? That's what you're saying, Derek?" I laughed.

"No, Misty. A natural part of hot-tubbing is enjoying the person you're sharing it with." He raised his glass to me. "Footsie is merely something you do to express that enjoyment, I think."

"Know what I think?"

"I'd love to hear it."

"I think you're exceptionally good at rationalizing."

His laugh was long, rich, unaffected, and when he caught my eye again, his was twinkling. "Well. I have to come up with something to say to excuse my rather obvious reaction to you."

I blushed. "I told you, Derek, I took that as a compliment. No need to excuse or justify." I raised an eyebrow. "It's nothing. I was a woman in a wet bikini. What else were you supposed to do?"

"You're very kind. It's just that... well, sometimes I'm not sure how people take things. For all I knew, you'd think I was just some dirty old pervert, putting the moves on one of my employees' wives."

I giggled. "The thought crossed my mind, old man."

"And still you took it as a compliment?"

I could feel my blush deepen. My whole body felt quite hot. "I'm sure you remember what I told you at the time? Something about how it's good when the people who think you're attractive, are attractive themselves?" I wanted to touch him; it was that kind of moment, and so I reached out and took his hand. "You're very, very handsome, Derek."

"Even in swim shorts?"

"Even in swim shorts." I sorted through a dozen things to say, but all of them struck me as cliches. "It's... well. I'll just say I've never really thought about being attracted to an older gentleman, and leave it at that. It's a new feeling for me."

"In the present tense?" His eyes went keen. "I was still thinking about the hot tub, Mrs Kepler. In the past."

I was sure he could see how red I was. Hell, that costume hid almost nothing, and he was a pretty perceptive guy anyway. I let my eyes fall, running out of words at last. I'd picked the best cliche, and it had failed me because I'd fucked up the verb tense. "This is embarrassing."

"It needn't be." His voice soothed, reassured. It comforted me. I raised my eyes slowly to his. "It's a little unfortunate, though."

"How so?"

"You're married. To one of my employees. You're not supposed to be attracted to an older gentleman."

"Definitely not." I raised my wine and went for a sip, but ended up with a gulp.

"And yet. It's the same problem from my side." I cocked a quizzical head. "Well, look at it from my perspective. I'm attracted to a beautiful woman whose husband I value and respect. And yet?" He shrugged, an enigmatic smile tickling his lips. "All I can really think about right now is that I'd enjoy going back into the hot tub with you."

"I'd love it." I sent that out thickly and too fast, a blurt, and I am not a woman who blurts. I chalked it up to the novelty of flirting and the fact I was talking to an intensely rich man. And... well. The wine.

"Would you?" His smile quirked up on one side. "Alas, then. I'm hosting. I can't."

"And I didn't bring a swimsuit."

"Is that really such a problem?" He watched me carefully, waiting until I burst out laughing. "Exactly, Misty. There are ways around those kinds of issues."

"There's no way I could ever go skinny-dipping with my husband's boss," I protested, feeling free. Easy. Like the conversation had returned to its tracks, but they were different tracks, on a different rail line. In a different life.

"I was going to say we keep a supply of suits here, for guests, but your idea has merit, too." We laughed together and he squeezed my fingers. "I'll leave you to think about that. Maybe, if the party goes as my parties often do, you'll stay late enough and your husband will be distracted enough for us to head out there, though it's chilly tonight."

I recovered slowly. "I'd like that." I brushed one of the tendrils of my wig out of my face. "Either way."

"Either way?"

He was being so good to me; he deserved a flirt, and so I tried one. "Suits or, well." The smile that spread slowly across his face told me he understood. "I'm monopolizing you, aren't I?"

"You are. And I'm not complaining." He clinked my glass. "Enjoy the party, Misty. I'll come find you later."

* * *

And he did, as the clock approached ten and the older guests began to make their excuses. It so happened I was alone again, watching as Travis played pool with his guys once more. They had claimed it was a departmental tradition, when at Derek's parties. He had protested good-naturedly enough when they'd come and asked him, pointing out that he couldn't possibly leave his wife out of his sight to play pool. "She's in my custody!" he'd beamed, flashing his cuffs, and I'd just tried to look sulky.

Like a captured whore.

"Bring her with you!" they'd barked, all of them transparently wanting to ogle me in the billiard room, and so off we'd all gone, where my husband and his friends had grabbed some of Derek's cigars and started making both kinds of shots, from both the cue stick and the bar.

I was still on wine at that point, savoring it, remembering that the man providing it had paid a bundle for it. The night was heavy and slow and the party had settled into a groove as I stood at a side table with someone's wife, dressed like Wonder Woman. I was at the point in the evening where I was internally gloating that my body looked better than hers. "I'm off to the powder room," she announced at one point, and so I was lingering over my glass while the boys got louder and the cue sticks started missing their shots.

It probably should not have surprised me when Derek St Claire appeared at my elbow once again, drifting out of the comfortable hubbub of the ballroom nearby. "Hi there, Misty. How's your evening?"

I perked up at once, feeling an obscure need to perform for him. "Fantastic, Derek. My compliments on the wine."

He nodded, standing just slightly too close to me. I didn't mind. "You know how good that wine is, I believe."

"I do. 1986, right?"

"Absolutely." We watched the pool in silence a moment, listening to the clack of the balls and the increasingly loud laughter of Travis and his friends, before I felt a soft touch on my arm. "This isn't very entertaining."

I glanced at him in time to see his eyes on my cleavage, and I was surprised to find I didn't mind that, either. "It isn't."

"I'm the host here, and my guest is not entertained." His touch became a caress, still light. "Let me entertain you."

"How?"

He smiled at me. "Your husband is neglecting you, sadly. I lack a wife. Our costumes match well enough." His smile was warm. "Why don't we just act like a couple for awhile? Just until your husband is done with his game."

My heart, made impulsive by the wine and his attention, beat faster. "How do our costumes match, Derek?"

"You're a hooker. I'm a john." We both smiled big. "Seems simple."

"Hmm." I'd already decided I would agree to go with him. I was ready to see what he had in mind. But he deserved a flirt, and Travis deserved an explanation. "Hookers often act as half of a couple, in various ways. But they charge, of course."

"Of course they do. And I'd be glad to compensate you, Misty. May I ask what you charge?"

I winked, in whore mode. "By the night? Or by the hour?"

He shrugged, his thumb stroking my arm now. "Honestly? When you've got money like I've got? I doubt it matters."

I laughed loudly enough that Travis glanced up from his shot, his eyes a little red. I noticed he'd let the police shirt come untucked, and he hadn't bothered to fix it. For some reason, that annoyed me. "Trav, honey? Do you mind if I go hang out with Mr St Claire for awhile?"

His eyes lit up into a quick, whetted wave of sobriety. I knew that look. He was hoping I would help his career, in some way. "Absolutely!"

Derek took over at once, smoothly, a man accustomed to being catered to. "Thank you, Travis." His hand moved from my arm to my waist, curving possessively around me, and I discovered I liked that too. "Enjoy your game, gentlemen. Two hundred dollars to the winner!" he added, and so we left the room to general drunken cheers. "Simple creatures, really," he sighed, "but they're very good at what they do."

"Travis is the best."

"That's why he's department head. It's certainly not because of his ability to carry a conversation." He steered us past a pantry. "Unlike you. It's interesting that you called me 'Mr St Claire' back there."

"It's how Travis refers to you, always." I made a show of leaning in to whisper to him. "I think he's a little afraid of you."

"He should be." His thumb began stroking my side now, which my costume left bare from hip to ribcage. It tickled, but nicely. "I'm his boss."

"You are." I think I meant it more seriously than it sounded, but at that point I was past trying to be all that subtle. He had offered to take me over, and I was fully willing. I laid my head against his shoulder, the two of us strolling toward the ballroom. "So what should we do, now that you're my client for the evening?"

"We should do what any man would do with his charming, high-priced callgirl." I smiled, pleased he knew the word. He maneuvered us out into the ballroom, a sudden sense of airy space, with that sea of faces I'd seen earlier now diminished a bit. "We should circulate. We should dance. We should socialize. I should make sure the hors d oeuvre keep coming your way, and you in return should make sure my glass is full. We should talk, and laugh, and smile."

"I don't do much of any of that with my husband," I laughed. Had I, ever? Did I really want to? "He'd make a bad john."

"Maybe you should." He shrugged again and smiled down at me, nodding toward a distant face in the crowd. "Like I said, he's not good at communication. What is it you two usually do?"

I hesitated, not sure whether this felt disloyal. "He games a lot. I read. But when we're together? Usually we just sit around watching TV."

"Perfect." He swept his arm off to one side and grinned. "I know just the place for us to do that. Come with me. Let's go watch TV."

"Okay," I giggled, but I was in his hands and I let myself be led around the edge of the ballroom, past a few smiling staff, and through a short hallway with dark wood paneling. "I like the decor here."

"I hired an excellent decorator. And a good architect, as well." A pair of double doors opened beside us, and he laid a hand on the knob. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?"

"Go into my TV room." He pushed the door wide, the room beyond suddenly awash with motion lighting: I saw chairs, large and plushy and clean, arranged in rows before a wide screen on the far wall. "More like a theatre, I suppose."

"Wow." I stepped onto lush pink carpeting and spun in a slow circle. The ceiling was high, but not as high as the architecture made it look; the space wasn't actually all that large, decorated tastefully with photos of Old Hollywood and a series of little display cases. "Ooh. And memorabilia!"

"You're a collector?" he asked as I stepped up to one of the cases. "Those are the horseshoes worn by John Wayne's horse in Stagecoach." The next case held a velvet display board, where I recognized a famous jewelry set. "And that's the jewelry that Shelley DeVore wore when she kissed Harry Dowd in Under The Azure Sky in 1935."

"Damn." I shook my head, impressed. "I don't have enough money to collect anything this nice."

"Of course you do." I glanced up at him, surprised. "I pay your husband's salary, and before I invited you to come and work for me I did my due diligence about your compensation from Norbera." He shrugged. "I wasn't snooping, you understand. Just business."

"Sure." I did understand, but hesitated. "And you're right. We do very well. But I guess I just don't think of spending money on things like this."

"Well, that's fortunate. Because I do." I blinked up at him. "And you're my date, at the moment. What's mine is yours, Misty."

I laughed. "Maybe I should just divorce Travis and marry you." It came out instinctively, but I knew it was the perfect comment; my gift of gab was paying off, its syllables fully in line with this man's way of talking. I had seldom felt more comfortable with any man, even my husband.

"No way could you do that to him." Derek's arm remained around my waist, his thumb still stroking my skin. I was used to it by now. "He'd be lost without you. He's an excellent leader of his department, but he doesn't socialize. Without you, he'd just play pool with his work friends." We both smiled; he was exactly right. "Like he is now. He'd never be able to schmooze, and so? He'd stay where he is. Appreciated, but not remunerated." He paused. "A bit like you, at Norbera."

I sighed and found his eyes. "I'm having a wonderful time this evening, Derek. Please don't try to recruit me."

"I'm not." His wrinkled face crinkled once more, the smile warm. "I told you, you'd distract me." He chuckled. "That's another reason you can't divorce Travis. If I married you, I'd never get anything done."

"No?"

"Oh, absolutely not. I think I'd spend far too much time and attention on you."

Instinct replied again, sending my arm around him and pulling tight. "You're sweet."

"I'm far from sweet, Misty." The glint had returned to his eye. "I'm honest. I'd be unable to tear myself away from you."

"You're exaggerating."

"Not at all." He brushed aside a corkscrew from my wig. "I'd be unable to get out of bed."

"Yes. Because you're elderly," I teased.

"No." He arched an eyebrow. "Since you insist on me spelling it out, it's because I think you'd keep me very effectively fucked."

"My goodness!" Our flirtation should have prepared me for such crudity, but somehow it still came as a shock. A pleasant shock, though. "So rude, Derek!"

"I told you, I'm honest."

My mind worked fast, trying to match his mouth. "I think you give me too much credit," I muttered. "I'm not sure I'd be able to keep up enough of a pace to make sure you were literally never able to get out of bed. I'm only one woman."

"Yes, and I think maybe that's why I've never gotten married."

My grin was huge by then, amazed by his presumption and ecstatic from his implications. "You're terrible."

He shrugged. "No, just honest."

"You're honestly terrible." I had a sudden urge to lean up and kiss him. He was making me feel so very special. "And we're not mingling, dear. As my client, you've paid for the best escort in the place, and you're failing to show me off."

"I'm currently hemorrhaging guests, and most of the good ones have left already."

"Good ones?"

"The ones I'd like to mingle with," he mused, glancing at a Rolex. "It's just past ten. I think I can decently duck out for a bit. Would you like to?"

"Of course." I meant it. If he'd asked me to go with him to Timbuktu, I think I'd have gleefully hopped on a plane. It was that sort of night, and he was that sort of man, and my life was in that sort of rut. "You can try to convince me you're not terrible."

His eyebrow rose. "Were you serious? Earlier?"

"You're going to have to narrow that down, old man," I giggled, "but I probably was."

"You said you'd love to join me in the hot tub again, and I confess I'd be very interested." He held my gaze, his eyes soft. "Would you still love to?"

I tightened my fingers along his waist, my whole body spiky. I knew I was flushed crimson. "What do you think?"

* * *

Two jack-o-lanterns glowed at the poolhouse door. "Cute."

"A nod to the holiday. Truth is, Halloween has never been my favorite day, but I'm enjoying it this year."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. This year, I get to look at you."

I glowed, but I also snorted. "I told you you were sweet."

His smile ushered me in, then toward a wide pair of sliding doors. "Take your pick," he nodded, revealing womens' swimsuits in rank upon rank. I saw all colors, all sizes, all styles, a virtual sales rack. "I'm told they're all excellent quality. I had my maid pick them out."

I smiled, running my hands across the hedge of lycra. "What was her budget?"

"Unlimited." He shrugged. "I figured she knew better than I did. She's a beautiful woman."

"She has good taste." I saw Versace, Gucci, Secret Whispers, Blue World, Dolce... I sighed, wondering whether I could actually do this, standing there in my overheight shoes and my whore's attire, with a wealthy and famous stranger pretending to be my husband.

Could I do this?

I decided I could. Or perhaps the wine did. Or maybe my musings, long-simmering whenever I watched women and dogs, and wondered about what track they were on, tracks so different from my own. Well. Now was the time to be different, it seemed. I dropped my hand and spun abruptly. "I don't like any of them, Derek."

He had taken a seat in a wicker chair where he could watch me. He did not seem surprised. "No, I suppose you don't."

"I... I think I'd rather skinny-dip," I confessed, my mouth curling in a guilty smile.

"Then so be it," he nodded, still calm and cool as though this sort of thing happened every day. "And what kind of host would I be if I let you go in at such a disadvantage?"

"You're not the sort of man that would do that," I smiled, my voice straining. My tracks went into a dark tunnel dead ahead, and I was daring to accelerate. My whole body shook.

"No, I am not." He hadn't moved, but now he leaned forward in the chair and studied my face intently. "You're sure you wouldn't rather use one of the suits, Misty?"

I was done hesitating. His house was past the hedge and outside the wisteria, where my life waited drunk at a pool table. But here, everything was fresh and wild and new. "I'm quite sure, Derek."

"Well then." He nodded crisply, then rose to his feet. "Let's not." He undressed with the ease of a man who did it often, and easily, a man who knew he had nothing at all to be ashamed of. He left his suit jacket draped carefully across the back of the wicker chair and then began unbuttoning his shirt methodically, making sure he set his cufflinks on the little table by the chair. "You can leave your costume here. It'll be quite safe."

"The jack-o-lanterns will guard them?" I giggled despite myself. "No ghosts and ghouls will be coming in here?"

"No," he replied seriously, "because I left instructions that I didn't want to be disturbed out here with you."

I stared at him in shock, amazed by his foresight, then smiled and began to take my own clothes off. I'd seen him wet in a pair of board shorts, months ago, so it's not like his body was some sort of mystery to me, but this was powerfully different. Then, we'd just been two polite people in a hot tub, playing footsie; now, we were stripping before each other, flirting very dangerously. "That was smart," I told him at last; I had my miniskirt unzipped and I was struggling with my hooker shoes. "Um. Do you mind?"

Derek paused. He was down to nothing but a pair of boxers by then (Yves Saint-Laurent, of course), but he knelt at once at my feet with his sinewy legs in sharp relief. "Of course," he nodded, unstrapping the ridiculous heels. Slipping my feet out of them felt like being released from prison, and my sigh made him smile. "I'll help you out of your fishnets too, if you like?"

"Certainly," I stuttered, popping the garter straps loose. I held my breath as he reached high up my thigh and began to roll them down, watching his fingers move over my leg, feeling a caress there. It had been many years since a man other than Travis had touched me in anything like that way, and longer than it should have since even Travis had done it. "Thank you." I was taking my wig off, the premium one that felt like it was made of real hair. Travis had gone all-out with our costumes.

"No need to thank me." He swept my right leg clean and then began on my left, rolling swiftly. "I'm eager to get into the tub. Speeding things up is my pleasure." I paused, one final instant, before I crossed what I thought of as a point of no return, cranking my arms back to unhook the garish bra the other guests had been gawking at all night.

The bra landed on the couch beside me.

Derek looked up, his face serene. If my bare tits gave him any satisfaction, he was careful not to show it; he still treated this as a normal part of his evening, but my heart was hammering like it was about to leap from my chest. "I appreciate it," I murmured once he had my left fishnet off; I stood before him then in nothing but a thong and an unzipped skirt, the silence thick enough that I could hear his knees creak as he got back to his feet. "I owe you," I told him a little nervously. I was not used to being topless in front of strange men. "Dealing with stockings is a pain in the ass."

"You don't owe me anything." He hooked his fingers very deliberately behind his waistband and slid his boxers to the floor, standing there stark naked in the middle of the poolhouse. I tried to match his maturity, tried not to stare, tried to act like a strong, capable woman instead of a giddy schoolgirl, but his penis was right there in front of me, swinging over a pair of low-hanging balls, and there was very little I could do to keep from looking at it.

This was not the track I was used to traveling on. But I was in it now, clacking loudly through the dark, mysterious tunnel.

And so I took a deep breath, reminded myself that he'd been right in the hot tub in July: we have nothing to be ashamed of, and pushed the last of my clothes off to show him every part of me. It felt like peeling off a scab after a scrape, that same sense of relief along with a pinch of fear, but by then I had nothing left to hide from Derek St Claire. I forced a smile and fought to keep my hands from covering my pussy, my tits. "Shall we, Derek?"

"Gladly, Misty," and so he took my hand and we strode naked through the haunted night, aiming for the hot tub we'd shared once already, back in that old world. On the other train track. "Should we turn the tub light on, you think? Or would that just draw people out here?"

"Let's not." I felt my throat husking up. "I don't mind being alone with my client." It emerged a bit more quietly than I'd have liked, and I was just sightlessly walking, blind in my own excitement, but there were jack-o-lanterns lining the paths and his fingers clasping mine, and so I felt my confidence grow as we walked.

We slid into the warmth together, feeling the tepid water hug our bodies in the chilly October air, sitting across from each other as we had before. He heard my sigh, equal parts relief at hiding in the water, and excitement about being there with him, and sheer bodily comfort as the warm liquid soothed a body locked too tightly into a questionable costume all evening. "This is wonderful."

"I could tell your feet were bothering you."

I smiled at him, and hoped he could see it in the flickering light from the pumpkins. "Could you? You're very attentive."

"I can be, when I'm interested in something. Or someone." He splashed slightly, his leg already brushing mine, and this time I didn't care. "I'd offer a footrub, Misty, but maybe that's a bit too far."

I burst into nervy laughter. "I just stripped naked in front of you and I'm making jokes about being your callgirl. Somehow, I doubt a footrub is a bridge too far." I did have to think about it, though, and he sat silent while I made my decision. It was a lot. "I'd love one," I finally told him, because why not?

"Good." I felt his hands beneath the water, searching, glancing off my calf, and then slipping down to capture my right foot. "I'm aware it might seem creepy."

"A little bit." I held my breath as he handled the logistics, pulling my foot toward him while he opened his legs beneath the still, warm waters. I felt his skinny abs under my sole, then, and his fingers working my arch. I couldn't feel anything from my heel, but I knew that if I had any senses there, beneath the callus of my sole, it was the root of his penis I'd be feeling, his pubes I was resting my feet in. "Fuck, Derek," I quavered after a moment, his thumb digging in. "Damn, that feels good."

"Nothing makes me happier." He rubbed and rubbed, manipulating first one foot, and then the other, leaving me in silent gratitude. Outside the party hummed, far far away; even farther away ghouls gathered, trick-or-treaters on streets in distant neighborhoods, venturing onto unknown streets like the women and their terrier, looking for something new. Something different. I sighed and swung my arms up along the tile, fully aware I was showing him my nude breasts bobbing in the orange light from the candles.

I didn't care. I wanted him to look. After awhile I stirred, his hands melting my feet, quietly attentive to something else I felt down there. I didn't want to mention it, feeling it would be somehow rude, and so instead I found a question: the only one that really mattered. "Derek?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know?"

His fingers paused, then started up again. I couldn't see his teeth against the shadow of his head, though I looked. "Did I know what, Misty?"

I drew a deep breath. Definitely I was feeling something else down there; he was getting hard, the stiffening of his dick a slowly insistent nudge along my foot, past my ankle. Still, I said nothing about it. "That... that I'm looking for something?"

He chuckled, his fingers confident again. "We're all looking for something."

"Are we?" That was intriguing. "Will you tell me what you're looking for?"

"More," he replied at once, his voice sounding very bleak. Old, even. "Always more. All my life, I've looked for something else, something that seemed beyond my reach." He was fully hard now, or close to it, his erection long and warm against my foot, and still we said nothing. "That's not what you're looking for."

"I'm looking for... different." I nodded to myself, admitting it aloud for the first time, and all at once I felt much better about myself. "I don't even know how to define it, though. But you knew I was looking for it."

He was silent a moment, and I felt a sudden obscure urge to trail my toes along his dick. No, I raged at myself. No. A tightness in my nipples warned me that I was sprouting there, just as surely as he was below, and belatedly I realized just how far I'd gone out here. How much trouble I was courting.

Or? Maybe I'd just found something different.

He waited a moment, his fingers lighter now, trailing up my legs in between pulses along my feet. He was very, very hard. "I can tell, Misty. There's no need for you to define anything."

I grinned, obscurely relieved, a penitent given absolution. "Thank you so much, Derek. For... for everything."

"No. Thank you. You've given me something interesting." His fingernail toyed with my knee. "Something to think about. I like you. Your poise, your grace. Your wit. It's rare that people don't act like idiots around me." His teeth did flash that time. "That's what you've given me."

"Is that more?" He tipped a quizzical head. "I mean, have I given you more? Since that's what you're looking for?"

He waited on that one, his eyes bright in the starry haunted night. "I told you I'm always honest. Will you be offended if I tell you something honestly?"

My heart thumped. "Please do."

He nodded, his hands on both my legs now with his raw hard-on framed by my feet. He paid no attention to it, so I told myself I shouldn't either. "I think you've given me quite a bit. But I think you want to give me much, much more."

Instinct, again, answered for me. "I do. Very much more."

His teeth shone once more. "Well then. Perhaps you should."

Perhaps I should. But there was no reason for me to slide my arms off the tile, no reason for me to lean forward and grab his spread thighs. And no reason for me to let my feet fall to the sides of his legs, scooting my butt off the molded seat, moving myself through that steamy water. There was no reason for him to wait, motionless, letting his legs close beneath mine, his eyes glittering until I dropped myself onto his lap and held myself there, our faces close enough to smell the wine on each others' breath.

There was no reason to do all that. But I did it.

I was more conscious of his hands than of his erection, feeling his fingers trace lightly up my thighs, along the sides of my hips, and then gently around to cup the cheeks of my ass. But no sooner had I told myself he was doing that, delighting in the feel of his adoration, than I became suddenly extremely conscious of the long, wiry penis now pressed tight against my mound, so that his head lay nestled against my belly button with his shaft in my pubic hair.

More. He wanted more.

So I let my own hands sweep slowly up his body, around his waist, pulling myself through the water until those tightly aching nipples of mine collided with the wet grey hair on his chest, trawling across his own nipples.

More. He wanted more.

And so I leaned in further, letting myself float both in the water and in my mind, until his smile met mine in a slow, patient kiss, the soul-searing kind that leaves an impression deeper than intent, deeper even than lust: his lips touched me, then parted, and I followed along until my tongue tasted him in my mouth as fully as my skin felt him against my body.

We kissed slowly, languorously, a pair of people feeling each others' closeness before even thinking about anything as tawdry as mere sex. He felt good, like a man should, firm but also gentle, demanding but also generous, a source of strength and comfort for a woman who hadn't even realized she was in need of both. And when at last I backed away, our lips parting in a glaze of saliva, still reveling in the feel of his nearness, I turned sideways so that I could lay my head on his shoulder with the surface of the water nearly at my nose.

I thought about what I had done.

His hand stroked my naked back as he cradled me in his arms and his legs. "You've found something different." It wasn't a question, and he wasn't looking for an answer. He felt wonderful around me, holding me like the water, his lips lazy on my forehead while his penis waited patiently, pressed against my hip. This was new to me, and fresh, and delightful. Every other man I'd ever been naked with, every one who had possessed an erection with me, had been trying to bang me.

This one was just sitting with me on a troubled, confusing Halloween, waiting patiently for me to decide what else I needed, which track I wanted to ride. Derek had wanted more; now, I felt a strong sense that I'd given him his fill. I was profoundly grateful, and I thanked him with another kiss. "You're different."

"You're more." He patted my butt quietly under the water. "We're probably not doing something wise here, young lady."

"We're just hot-tubbing, old man." I blew out a long breath, bubbling the water before my face.

"I'll agree to disagree. But probably we should get out."

"Should we?"

"Without doubt." I tipped my head up toward his, searching his face, refusing to ask the question. But he answered it anyway. "Oh, I certainly do want to fuck you. But not in a hot tub. It's cliched, and it's also difficult."

"Difficult?" I still felt safe. Warm. Comfy. I felt at home in this new place. The train moved swiftly and well.

"Oh yes. The water washes away the woman's juices. In my experience, underwater sex sounds wonderful but ends up disappointing." He kissed my cheek, small twitches of his lips against my skin, leaving my body singing. "It's usually better just to bend her over the side of the hot tub and fuck her from behind, I've found."

I giggled. "Then why don't we just do that?"

He stroked my butt again, all the way around, his fingers curving low until they just faintly met my pussy lips. I went still. "I've got guests here, Misty. And one of them is your husband. If any of them were to come out here and see me plundering your ripe young body... well. I think there would be sudden problems, honestly."

"Fuck." I blinked, crashing back down to earth. Or water, anyway. "You're right, of course."

"I'm not saying we can't do it. I'm saying we shouldn't." His fingers inched along the very edge of my slit, just barely threatening to enter "But I'm a CEO. I'm often right."

I laughed, exhilarated. "I was right. You're terrible." I kissed his cheek, trying to tamp down my body, and then rose off of him to stand in the water, dripping, sleek and sensual in the light of the jack-o-lanterns. I stared down at him, more and more certain what I needed. "But, just so you know, if you did bend me over the tile and fuck me, I'd love it."

"Yes, you would. I'd make sure of that." He extended his hand and palmed my thigh, running his fingers across the slick skin. "You're very beautiful."

I shivered, and by that time I could no longer lie to myself and claim it was the cool air after the warm water. With difficulty, I found my voice. "'Ripe young body' is a nice touch," I murmured. "You were concerned about a cliche? That phrase is a good example, maybe."

"A little bit." He shrugged and raised his eyes to mine, staring boldly, and he was still staring when he lifted his hand up my thigh, his palm curling around the inside, and pushed his thumb firmly against my clit. At once I sagged, a low moan sighing out of me while my hand scrabbled for his shoulder, and when my legs buckled his fingers were right there waiting for me: they slid inside my slit with no resistance whatsoever, plunging deep.

"Oh fuck," I whispered, my other hand grabbing his wrist; was I trying to pull him out, or trying to push him in?

"Yes," he murmured quietly, his fingers moving, "I think I will. Right over the side of the hot tub, with your perky breasts flattened on the tile." I moaned again. "I imported that tile from a mosque in Egypt. It's a hundred and fifty years old." His eyes drilled into me no less certainly than his fingers. "Would you like me to fuck you over it?"

"Jesus." My grip on his wrist tightened, and this time there was no doubt what I wanted: I let my knees bend, pushing down onto him. Craving him. He wrapped his other hand around my body, cupping my ass to support me.

"I'll do it. With nobody to watch but the pumpkins, unless a wayward guest comes out here to look at the stars or something." He chuckled, his fingers in strong, rhythmic motion, knowing precisely where they should go. "A guest like your husband, maybe? So. How wise would it be, Misty?" He leaned up against me until I could feel his whisper stirring my pubes. "I just want you to be fully aware which direction you're deciding to go," he hissed, and the next thing I felt were his lips on me, kissing softly right above where his thumb was doing such remarkable things to my clitoris...

"More," I panted, my other hand finding his grey hair.

"No, Misty. 'More' is what I want. You want 'different.' Like, a different set of hands stroking you. A different mouth tasting you. A different cock erupting inside you. A different man to adore your body." He kissed me again, sucking at my flesh this time, and I gasped. "A man, perhaps, who knows what he's doing? Maybe a bit better than Travis does?"

It should have alarmed me, or at least shamed me, his mention of my husband, but the moment my mind began to go down that road his tongue flickered out, on me and in me, and I felt fireworks go off behind my belly, deep inside me where his fingers still played in a place that hadn't known anything different in many years. I clung to him, the cold night completely forgotten in the warmth of what he did to me as he sat calmly in his hot tub.

Abruptly, like a meteor flaring in the sky and then winking away, my will lost its battle with his fingers and his tongue. I came briefly, intensely, in a phosphorus flare of nervy amazement different from anything I'd felt before with any man, the orgasm sudden and sharp and clear as it marched through my body and battered my mind. I heard a low, warbling groan, and realized without shame that it was my own voice, cracked and helpless, as I slumped over with Derek's strong hands the only things holding me out of the water. Or the only things holding me on this planet.

I blinked down at him with my world a pink blur, seeing his eyes intent on mine in the dark. The water spread calm and warm around us, and I still trembled with the aftershocks of what he'd so easily done to me. He had withdrawn his fingers at some point I couldn't even remember, so tumbled had my mind been, and now his teeth flashed again as he rose slowly out of the water. "Come with me," he invited, warm and safe as his hand found mine again. "It's not far to the poolhouse, and you're freezing. Watch your step getting out of the tub, Misty."

I shook at once, his words making the world real in the October chill, my teeth chattering as I gripped his fingers. "Okay," I managed, childlike, and Derek helped me up the steps and down the jack-o-lantern path with his straight, eager hard-on leading the way. My thoughts danced muddled in my head, but none of them were as nervous nor as apprehensive as they should have been. My new track was clear before me. "Good lord."

I meant more than just the orgasm, and his smile as he looked back at me said he realized it. "I told you I'd make sure you enjoyed it." He led me once more down the steps through the night, silent but for the faded sounds of revelry from the house. "But I wasn't kidding, before," he added, "we don't have all night, sadly."

I found a tingly grin. "We have long enough."

"Do we?" He ushered me into the poolhouse where, in another lifetime, we'd undressed. My outfit still lay where I'd left it on one of the couches, mocking me, a whore's costume I'd been offended to wear. But. Look at me now: I had let a rich man eat me out in a hot tub while my husband played pool. I was still pondering that when I felt him loom behind me, his sinewy arms pulling me close, until I felt the tap of his hard penis on my bare ass. "Not as long as I'd like, I think."

I squeezed my eyes shut and made myself forget about the costume, leaning back into him with a sigh. "Long enough for me to give my client his money's worth, though."

"Ah." His lips found my shoulder, kissing up toward my neck, and I jumped when I felt fingers on my breasts, cupping each one. My eyes still closed, I hunched back against him until his long, skinny dick stood firm in the crack of my butt. "I'd forgotten we were still pretending."

"Not pretending." I gasped when he pinched, hard, at my nipples. "Not anymore." I shivered again when his mouth reached my ear, nibbling there. "That feels good."

"I know it does. I'm paying attention. I can tell you like this." His voice was a balm, all warmth and passion in my ear. He felt like a live wire at my back, like an electric current passed from him to every part of me that touched every part of him. "Can I ask you something personal?"

I giggled, his breath tickling me. "Under the circumstances, that seems like kind of a silly question."

"All right." He went back to kissing me, his hands weighing my tits. It felt good. "How do you usually fuck, Misty?" He said the word harshly, its consonants slicing me. I shivered.

"Um. Usually, just... you know. Basic. Missionary. Sometimes, um, doggy?" This wasn't a lie, really, though my doggy days were mostly far in the past; Travis and I were no longer having a lot of sex, but back when we had, we'd usually just done the basics. "Travis... that is, my husband and I, we usually do it, like, slowly. Quietly."

"Mm." I was very aware of his hands, of his lips, of his dick. "I think we should do it differently, then. Don't you think?"

Again I tingled, his touch waking my body back up, that red throb returning behind my belly. I remembered the hot tub, the instinct that had led me to straddle his lap, the ease with which I'd floated there. My voice came out husky. "Lie down, Derek."

"All right." One more time his lips brushed my neck; one more time his fingers lit my nipples on fire, and then he was gone, obeying me. No, trusting me: he knew. He knew my track was different now, and he wanted to follow it with me, and so he padded across the room and found one of the lounges there, a broad wicker piece almost like a daybed. I watched over my shoulder as he lay down, stacking a few pillows behind his head, and looked over at me with his erection jutting up over his belly like a sundial. A fierce pride stabbed at me, a reminder that I'd been the one who gave him that, who made him want to fuck, but then I was turning my body and prowling over to him.

Different. I'd never done anything like this before, to any man, but now was the time. I felt every part of myself blooming: ripe, he'd called me, and ripe I was, my hips swaying and my tits bobbing, my thighs already streaked with my own eager juices.

I'd never been more primed to fuck a man. And the shine in Derek's eyes told me he knew it.

Swiftly I mounted him, swinging my leg high, every part of me bright red and glistening from the hot tub, from my arousal, from my excitement. He was solid underneath me, his skin leathery in a way that reminded me of sturdy old furniture, and I took his penis in my hand for the first time and held it up to myself, letting him see how deep he'd go. "Put your hands on me," I demanded, low and sultry, and once again he obeyed me without hesitation: I felt my skin ignite when his fingers found my thighs, my hips, my butt. I giggled, breathless and self-assured. "You love my ass."

"It's perfect." He smiled up at me, both of us feeding from each others' confidence. "All of you is perfect."

"Thank you." Deliberately, my gym-toned legs lifted me above his with my hand still holding him up, his erection trembling and hot in my fingers. It was not a beautiful thing, his dick; he was not the most handsome man in the world. But he was here, and so was I, and he was different. And I needed him as I'd needed nobody else before. Slowly, I moved his head against my lips, teasing myself, still swollen and twitchy from the orgasm he'd given me in the hot tub.

Another version of me would have asked, would have checked to make sure he was all right with this. Still another version of me would have inquired about condoms, about diseases, about birth control. But this new version of me was not interested in such mundane concerns, and so I wedged him neatly between my wet pussy lips and let myself sink down onto him, feeling a heavy push from deep inside me as I impaled myself. He was not thick, but he was long, spearing high, and I needed two little flexes before I nestled down onto him with our pubic hair mingling.

He stared up at me as he always had, seriously, thoughtfully, warmly, and then I watched as his shrewd eyes dipped slowly down, down, past where my breasts loomed above him, past the firm young skin of my stomach, past my swelling hips, past the well-trimmed tuft of my bush, and finally down to where we were joined in the closest, most intimate way possible. He had disappeared inside me. "Perfect," he sighed again, relaxing beneath me.

An instant I waited, feeling myself hold him tightly. How many other women had he brought here, mentally and physically and sexually? Who else's life had he changed as he'd come cannonballing into mine, so effortlessly and with such charm? Was I anything to him?

I didn't care.

At once I pivoted backward, my hips swinging atop his, feeling the grind of his root against the front of my pussy; still sensitive from his thumb and his mouth, my clit responded with a dull, yearning ache. I heard him groan for the first time when I rose up off him, my thighs eager to move me, and then crashed back down to squeeze tightly around him. I saw his eyes flutter, just once. "You like that, old man?" I chanted, low and urgent, because I knew he did like it.

Of course he did. He had a tight pussy wrapped around his dick, and that pussy was supposed to belong to another man. What man wouldn't like that?

And I was the cause of it, the cause of his pleasure. I felt a surge of satisfaction at that, the power of what I could do, what I was doing, even as I rode him in a smooth, even rhythm, my body sinuous on top of his. "No," I whispered to him, watching his face as attentively as he watched mine, "you love that. Don't you?" I had no idea where those words came from; instinct had taken over once more, and his face told me instinct was correct.

Derek liked dirty talk. "Fuck," he whispered, his eyes wide and, for the first time, a bit duller as he drifted out of control. He was an addict, getting a fix from my body.

"You love how I feel." My thighs began to slap as I rose higher, faster, my vagina controlling him. "You love my pussy making you twitch." His fingers tightened on my ass, and I knew he'd leave marks there, but I didn't care. He was intoxicated by me, consumed by the force and power of my need, and I felt my own body start to burn again more slowly than it had under the attention of his suckling lips.

I swooped low, my hips churning, smearing my body along his as our mouths tangled again, the kiss nothing like the soulful connection we'd shared in the hot tub, so long ago now; this was passion, and more passion, the desperate need for two people to share everything that was in them. "You want my young cunt to make you cum." He grunted, his wiry hips arching as best they could to meet mine, but I was younger and stronger and needier and I was going to make him shoot, regardless of what he wanted.

"Yes," he rasped. "Yes. I need it."

"You do." I was spitting the words directly into his ear now, our skin in contact everywhere as I smothered his dick. "When I came to your house tonight, I was dressed like a whore. That's what I'm fucking you like, Derek." I plunged my tongue into his mouth, feeling something unclench inside me. He was going to cum. "I'm your whore."

"My god," he whispered faintly, and I knew then and there that he was losing it, his orgasm starting down in those full balls and rocketing up into me. The dance of his shaft within me, the feeling of warmth inside, set me off once again and I straightened, my face reaching toward the ceiling, forcing my ass down onto his groin as we both panted hard in a pair of soundless screams.

Twice, three times, four I felt him twitch deep within, a powerful dance from his dick, a dance different than any I'd felt before. And as I lay back down on top of his nude body, our kisses slower, his dying hard-on now corking a thick load inside me, I knew that if he wanted even more? I'd give it to him.

* * *

I laid out the whore costume across my own bed the next day, still sore from Derek St Claire's depth. I'd gotten my husband into the car after the drunken pool tournament had finished; the driver had been impatient, at midnight on Halloween, but I'd begged him to wait a moment while I used the restroom.

But that's not where I went. I stole that last moment of the Tekkscape Halloween party and I spent it with Derek, kissing him goodbye as Travis slept in the back of the car. He tasted like his wine and my pussy. "Thank you," was all I could think to say, and he replied with nothing but a smile.

We'd already said everything else, in those quiet moments after we'd cum, as we'd lain tangled in the poolhouse, still joined. Joined, but also new. And complicated. My sore hips and the wetness with which he fell out of me told me just how complicated, and the indifference I'd felt as I'd loaded Travis into the car told me a bit more.

But I was sure I'd figure it out.

The costume, I knew, would need a dry-cleaning. When I'd put it back on, afterwards, some of Derek had leaked out onto the skirt. Which is what happens when you give your thong to your new lover, I reflected, still feeling no shame as I peered out the window on that bright Wednesday morning.

Two women walked a terrier out there.

I wondered, sitting there on my bed, about the train tracks they were on, and the ones I was on. And just how many tracks there might be. But I didn't want, anymore, to hop onto theirs. They could wonder about mine, if they wanted.

Because on their track, they were picking up shit.

On my track, I'd gotten laid by a billionaire.

* * *

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