It’d been almost two weeks since I found out my best friend’s wife was an escort, since our [quick, dirty, sticky secret.](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/gdlfla/a_sticky_quickie_with_cassandra_aka_the_time_i)
Tupperware. I’d been sent to return some of Cassandra’s Tupperware that Heather had borrowed, a menial task, an innocent mission that I dutifully accepted because it gave me an opportunity to get stoned with Frank. Yeah, I’d probably get to see Cassandra, but all I was expecting was an ogle or two, some fresh footage in the spank bank.
When I was walking into the building Frank was on his way out. He apologized, said it was a work thing that just came up. He saw the Tupperware and told me that Cass was in the apartment and suggested I hang out till he got back.
The mere thought of being alone with her made me nervous. She opened the door and ushered me in, asking if I caught Frank on his way out, retreating to the kitchen where something smelt incredible.
I followed, admiring her commitment to style – even at home she looked like something out of a magazine, a chirpy sundress, an apron with a monogram and her hair up in a bun, like a sexy fifties housewife. Think Mrs Maisel.
She was happy to see her Tupperware, offering me a beer as a reward. The smell was stew, her grandmother’s recipe. “The secret ingredient is time” she said, “not the herb”. It was casual, not awkward. Platonic. Normal. I mean, I was still all eyes, but not much moreso than I would typically be. I offered to help but there was nothing left to do but wait. She suggested we smoke a joint. I never turn down free drugs.
She took off her apron and I followed her onto the tiny balcony where she lit up a small, fat spliff. We smoked and chatted about stew of all things, about bone broth and molasses, conjuring images of bones and assess in my juvenile mind.
“Do you realize you’ve been staring at my chest for the last five minutes?” she asked. Some things aren’t worth denying, so I just shrugged.
“You’re not wearing a bra” I replied, like it was a justifiable excuse to stare at her poky nipples.
“I’m at home. Underwear is optional.”
She smiled a cheeky little smile and tossed the roach off the balcony. I followed her back inside, sitting on the couch, crossing my legs to hide my bulge, watching her walk back to the kitchen, looking for evidence of a panty line. Finding none.
She came back with a fresh beer and a glass of red wine, sitting beside me, close enough that I could smell her scent.
“How’s business?” I asked.
“Not bad” she replied, proceeding to ramble on about it, clearly delighted to have someone to share with. She told me she’d diversified, private yoga sessions, making house calls, getting quite a few referrals. Frank was supportive. She said it felt less sleazy than the hotels, but her weekend regulars were “easy money” and she still hadn’t told Frank she’d lost her job. “I will, soon…”
I was lost in my filthy imagination, picturing her getting pounded in yoga gear, gazing down her dress unapologetically.
“If you keep looking at me like that I’ll have to charge you” she said, bemused, vaguely annoyed. I offered a half hearted apology and resumed eye contact, watching her lips as she continued talking, imagining what dark arts they were capable of. I was properly hard, wondering if I’d make it through the evening, contemplating excusing myself for a quick tug. Hoping for something more.
She told me that the money was good, but the guilt was constant. She was terrified that Frank would find out. She was careful to make sure none of her clients were people they knew, but that she’d gotten an enquiry from an acquaintance and she was getting worried. I started to feel guilty for being as aroused as I was. It was pretty fucking obvious. My eyes wandered yet again, down to her thighs, pretty certain she was going commando, desperate to find out.
“Should I pencil you in for the weekend?” she asked.
“I doubt I could afford you. Besides, I don’t think it’d be a good idea…”
“Why not? It’s painfully obvious you want to… and I’m not that expensive…”
“Do you have a payment plan?”
“Cash. I’m worth every penny.”
“I don’t doubt it”
“I can fit you in at 9. Pun intended.”
I thought it was just banter but she was serious. I didn’t say no. I didn’t say anything. Her hand was on my thigh, her fingers tantalizingly close to my erection. She said it would be fun, that I could have my way with her. I grunted ask she found my bulge, uncrossing my legs as she rubbed me through my jeans, wondering how far her sales pitch would go.
“If it’s a question of conscience, tell me to stop.” She slurred, squeezing me hard. I stifled my groan but said nothing. She smiled. “ l thought as much. If it’s about the money, I’m sure Frank will lend you some” she said, unbuckling me. The thought of borrowing money from my friend to pay his wife for sex was so sordid it made me smile.
“Should I stop?” She asked, her fingers on my zipper, awaiting my reply. I shook my head and my zipper came down. “Friday at 9” she said, reaching into my boxers, pulling my throbbing erection free. I nodded. She smiled, muttering something about it being bigger than she remembered as her head descended into my lap.
And then I was in her mouth, my tip between those lips I’d been admiring, my eyes bulging at the sight of her head bobbing up and down. Sucking me with determination. Tongue and teeth, swirling and scraping. Fingers twisting and squeezing. I groaned her name and grabbed a boob and bit my lip and prayed for strength. Every second I survived was a win.
It was the kind of blowjob you get when she’s got no intention of fucking you. Getting it done. Out of the way. Over with. A finishing blow, literally. The minute I lasted made me feel like an Olympic champion. I grunted something eloquent like “oh fuck Cassandra I’mma cum in your mouth”. Fair warning. Gentlemanly.
She didn’t stop. I said it again in case she didn’t hear and she covered my mouth with her hand, politely getting me to shut the fuck up, muting my growl as I unloaded. She stopped and held firm, her lips tightly sealed around the top of my pulsing shaft, flinching as I spurted, her eyes watering, her cheek starting to bulge. I hadn’t blinked for the duration and I had no plan to start soon. She held on until I was limp.
Watching her sit up and spit out my load into her half empty wine glass is burned in my memory. Every detail. Her expression, victorious and disgusted. The bit that oozed down her chin that she wiped away with the back of her hand. The stark contrast between my gooey white cum and the deep red wine.
The look of terror in her eyes as we heard the door open. Watching her gag as she downed the cocktail from hell, consuming the evidence, tucking away the nipple I’d not even noticed. I was still oozing, frantically tucking and zipping up, jumping to my feet, out to the balcony where I fixed my belt.
It took half an hour, two beers, a large whiskey and a strong joint to get my heart to stop pounding. Frank seemed oblivious. When I asked to borrow some cash he said “you too?”.
Poor Frank.
The stew was lovely. I took some back for Heather in the very same Tupperware I’d returned a couple hours earlier. Best Tupperware ever.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/hb033m/cassandra_my_best_friends_wife_cooking
The best stories ive read on here. Keep up the good work