19 comments/ 38847 views/ 43 favorites Red Light Risks By: steelring Wedding anniversaries are supposed to be beautiful celebrations or love and romance, which is exactly what Caroline and I enjoyed as we lazed in the canal barge in Amsterdam during the one hour tour of the city, champagne of champagne in our hands. It was our fifth wedding anniversary, and we had arrived the night before, flying in straight after work. Our hotel was in central Amsterdam, which meant that we could walk everywhere we wanted to go. We had had a lazy morning, before strolling in the sun to find a café for our breakfast. The barge trip was around mid-day, and once it had finished we found ourselves a canal side restaurant serving lunch, and took a table on the pavement. Caroline had checked out the guide book and had two places she wanted to visit in the afternoon, so after lunch we walked first to the Anne Franke house, where we spent an hour going back in time to the Nazi occupation. Then we walked to the Van Gogh museum, queued hand in hand for forty minutes to get in, and spent another hour viewing the paintings at the speed that suited Caroline. With the walking, and the time spent at each of the places Caroline had wanted to see, we got back to our hotel a little after six, which in a sense is where this all begins, and where she began to reveal a side to her that I had not suspected might be there. Just to explain, Caroline is a good looking brunette who had been with at least a few other guys before we met, which was not the most romantic of places, but on a Greenpeace street stall in London. Unlike the other activists, Caroline was not dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, but in a summer dress that said suburban London, and her parents turned out to be respectable, church going people, who hold garden parties for local charities, and coffee mornings or afternoon teas for the local elderly. So once a month Caroline still helps out with the Greenpeace stall, and once a fortnight we go to her parents place in time to go to church with them, and then enjoy family Sunday lunch. Caroline serves cakes and scones at the fundraisers, and chats with the elderly guests, delighting her parents in the process. She even looks like her mother, which is fine with me. At twenty two, which is how old she was when first I chatted with her at that Greenpeace stall, Caroline had a perfect hour glass figure. Her mother, I discovered later, still has. It may need a little more support than Caroline's but if my wife keeps her figure as well as her mother has, there will be no complaints. So when, in our hotel, Caroline asked if I had made plans for our anniversary evening and I admitted that I had been leaving that until we had arrived in Amsterdam, she surprised me by what she proposed, even if Amsterdam is world renowned for a kind of tourist attraction that few other European cities have. Maybe I should have planned something special. The city break had been my idea, partly our anniversary celebration, partly a chance to relax and make our trying for a family all the more enjoyable, and possibly increase the chances of success. I had booked and paid for the hotel and flights, but I should have worked out how we would spend that all important evening. Instead, it was my wife who made the running. Caroline's first suggestion was that we showered and changed into what we would wear for the evening. After all that walking, that made sense. Besides, when I am heading out for the evening I like to have a second shave of the day, to lose my five o'clock shadow, and to be as smooth as possible when we get back to bed. I was at the basin of our en suite shower room when Caroline slipped past me, ducking into the shower stall, her naked, white flesh curvaceous as ever. The next thing I heard, instead of the shower itself, was an electronic buzzing, and I guessed that my wife was giving her underarms the once over, just as I was doing with my jaw. I carried on shaving. Caroline stepped out of the shower to put her lady razor where it would not get wet, and I noticed in that brief moment that I had been wrong. Like most brunettes, Caroline has a healthy growth of hair between her legs that she needs to trim from time to time. This time she had done more than trim her curls. She had shaved her pubis smooth. Her pink lips peeped from her slit, without a single curl to shield them from view. My luck was in. Caroline showered. I finished shaving. Caroline came out, water dripping from her body. I love that her breasts are firm enough that the droplets from their undercurves fall clear away from her body. I also love the way that after she showers her areoles are tight and rubbery and her teats are hard. But I needed to get ready, so I went into the shower stall and turned on the water. By the time I came out, Caroline was half dressed, in a skirt and stockings that I had never seen before. The skirt looked like cheap imitation leather, black, button fronted from waist to hem, pencil tight, and cut to a few inches above the knee. The stockings were black diamond, fishnet mesh. For whatever reason I just assumed that they were stockings, although my wife normally wore tights with skirts. Something told me that I was right, but it was only later that I would know for sure. I got dry and started dressing, still not sure what Caroline's plans were, but watching her continue getting ready. She took a tissue paper wrapped, flat package from her flight bag and tore it open, taking out something black and flimsy. She unfolded it, opened it out, slipping her arms into the sleeves and buttoned the front to just above her nipples. It was a blouse that was not there. She was wearing it, but it hardly existed. It was black, but it was translucent. You could see right through it. Her upper body, arms, torso, breasts, wide brown areoles and nipple stubs, might all just as well have been naked. This was my wife. This was Caroline, who every second Sunday stood with her parents singing hymns and who knelt beside elderly friends to talk with them, and she was standing in an imitation leather skirt with diamond mesh stockings and a sheer blouse that hid nothing but displayed everything. I said nothing. I was still pulling on my trousers. Caroline went to the dressing table and sat on the wooden curved back chair, doing her make-up, her back to me. Her back is flawless. Her entire body is flawless. I could still see her front in the mirror. Her nipples pushed the blouse out into points. As I closed my fly I realised that my cock was swollen. Caroline does not wear red lipstick. She wears muted colours, closer to the natural shade of her lips. I have known her to wear pink. That evening my darling wife carefully applied brilliant red lipstick, the only colour that would perfectly match the outfit of a hooker. I put on my shirt, my socks, my shoes. I checked my jacket to ensure I had my wallet. I had my jacket ready and waiting to carry over my shoulder when Caroline stood up from the dressing table and turned to get her own jacket from her flight bag. The jacket matched her skirt, thin, black, imitation leather. She put it on. It had steel zips at the front and on the pockets and decorative steel chain on the upper arms and across the back. It worked. It was what a street prostitute might wear. "So where are we going?" I asked her. "Where any guy would want to go," Caroline said. "The Red Light district." "You planned this?" I asked. "Of course I did, silly," she grinned. "It's only fair. You brought me to Amsterdam and put up with going where I wanted to this afternoon. I just wouldn't want you seeing the girls behind the window and being tempted, so I thought if you had your own hooker for the night you might stay out of trouble." She zipped up the front of her jacket, to just below her breasts. You could still see the sheer blouse beneath, and the valley of her breasts beneath that, but you could not see her areoles or nipples. She picked up a cheap, shiny, black plastic clutch bag and looked at me. "Ready to go?" my new slut of a wife asked, smiling. Caroline seemed to know the way. I guessed that she must have memorised the route from the guide book map. It took us fifteen minutes to get to the main station square, and a minute more to go down a small street with shops and bars to a walkway beside one of the many minor canals. It was there that we saw our first red lit windows with virtually naked girls posing within touching distance, were it not for the glass between. They were both lookers, those first two girls, a blue eyed blonde with skin as white and as flawless at Caroline's and a raven haired, olive skinned beauty with dark oval eyes. The blonde wore white underwear and the black haired girl wore red, but what they were wearing left more visible than it covered, and even what it covered still showed through. You could tell that the blonde had neat button nipples, that the other girl had dark, flat areoles, and that neither of them had any pubic hair. Nor had my wife. "Like them?" Caroline asked. "I have you," I said. That was a question that I was not going to answer truthfully. It was still around eight in the evening, and it was not yet dark. There were plenty of people around. This was not a place reserved for dirty old men in raincoats. There were people of all ages, including children. How the parents explained to their kids why the ladies in the windows were almost naked, I have no idea. It is not a place I plan that we bring our children when we have them, but it was clear that in Amsterdam, prostitution is just accepted as a normal part of life. Caroline unzipped her jacket. I thought that she just planned to let it fall open, but I was wrong. She took it off, and did as I was doing with mine, carried it over one shoulder. The people closest to us noticed. She immediately received a lot of looks. No one else on the canal side walkway was wearing anything other than normal summer wear, teeshirts, blouses, dresses, tops of all kinds. There were some good looking legs on display, below short skirts, or short shorts, but no one else was displaying their breasts, with only sheer black fabric to cover them, that the light from the evening sun shone straight through so that it was flesh, and not fabric, that was spotlighted by its rays. We strolled, slowly. It was not as densely red light as I had thought that it would be. There were normal bars and restaurants, and then there would be more windows, some normal buildings, probably residential, and then a sex club or a sex shop and even a museum of sex, which we stopped at and, after looking at each other to check if we were in agreement, which we paid the money for and went inside. If you want a full history of sex and all the interesting artifacts that people have created over time, to do nice and nasty things to each other for at least the pleasure of one of the participants, then you need to visit the sex museum yourself. We found it fascinating, but no more fascinating than I found Caroline when I realised that she was using the moments when my attention was caught by an exhibit, to undo the buttons of her skirt, starting from the hem and working up. The museum is on several floors, with steep Dutch wooden stairways interconnecting them. By the time that we reached the third floor, Caroline's skirt was undone as far as the apex of her legs. That was when I knew that she was wearing stockings, just from her walking towards me. Unbutton a tight pencil skirt and the front of the skirt will open as you walk. "Can I just check something with you?" I asked her. "Of course," Caroline said. "What is it?" "Are you wearing anything beneath that skirt?" My wife gave me one of those looks. "The same as any prostitute," she said. It may not have been what you have expected of the Caroline who went to church, but by then it was the answer I had anticipated. There was no closing up the buttons on the way back down the several flights of stairs of the museum. Instead there was the moment when two guys who might have been around twenty were climbing up the steep stairs as we went down, and I heard one comment under his breath to the other. "Schone fotze!" "Ja, rasiert," I heard the other answer as they went on up. My German is not great, but I knew what they were saying. I guess if you unbutton your skirt that high and then go down stairs while someone else is coming up, then they are going to see it all and even notice that you shave. At least the guys were appreciative, even if it was not quite within the terms of our marriage vows for my wife to have displayed her cunt to total strangers. Outside we stood by the canal for a moment deciding what to do. It was almost nine and we had not eaten. It was dark, or at least as dark at the city lights and the moon above would ever let it get. We were between lamp posts but it was still obvious to people passing by that Caroline was naked beneath her flimsy blouse, and there was a gentle breeze riding the canal water that every so often played with her skirt, opening the front enough to display bare white inner thigh. My wife did not seem to care. We agreed that we should find a place to eat, which was not hard to do. There were several restaurants that side of the canal and more on the other side. We walked on a little, checking menus. The third restaurant we stopped at gave me inspiration, not so much with the food it offered, which all seemed much the same as in the others, but with a possibility that the interior arrangement offered. The waiter was fine with my choice of table, right by the window. I let Caroline sit facing out, so that she could enjoy the view. I sat side on. We had climbed a short flight of steps to access the restaurant, the entire building having been built half a story above ground level, or below, if you counted the basement. That put our chair seats at eye level with people passing by, and with anyone who stopped to browse the menu on board beside the steps. Caroline instinctively crossed her legs as she sat down. Her skirt fell open, her upper leg almost bare, apart from the diamond mesh of her fishnet stocking and the black of the stocking top, tight around her mid-thigh so as not to require a suspender belt. "Don't cross your legs," I suggested. The waiter was offering her the menu, and she turned to me, hesitated, turned back to the waiter, uncrossed her legs, and took the menu from his hand. He then came around and offered a menu to me, which I took. I ordered some wine, and the waiter left us. Outside, a couple in their forties were looking at the menu, and, as I had done, checking inside the restaurant by looking at best they could through the window. "You see them?" I asked. "Yes, why?" Caroline answered. "Open your legs wider." She gave me another of her looks, but she opened her legs wider. If she could bend her wedding vows a little, so could I. The couple saw. The guy grinned, enjoying the view. From outside I had calculated the angles, seats at head height, no table cloth, only place mats, a sturdy wooden table with legs at each corner, but no other supporting struts. Facing them, Caroline was offering the couple at the menu board a clear view of her hairless pussy. The woman smiled, looking at Caroline's face, acknowledging her daring. They then moved on. Caroline slid her hand underneath the table, opening the remaining buttons, so that her skirt was open right to the waistband. For the next hour or so, the view from outside the restaurant would be incredible. This is not a restaurant review, so I will save the details of the meal, although it was good. So was our conversation, including the discussion we had of prostitution, both the women who sell their bodies, and the men who pay for them. There are of course male prostitutes in Amsterdam as well, but we did not discuss them. Caroline wondered what it would be like to sell herself for sex, to let a man use her, just for the money. She would never do it, but she wondered if it was in some way liberating, no longer controlled by social norms or marriage vows, which she said that she would never break. It would be sex free of emotion, the customer calling the shots, doing with you as he wished, with no concern for what you thought of him, or the sexual desires he played out with you. She had checked online, she said. The girls behind the window would charge fifty euros for twenty minutes. You could also arrange a girl to come to your hotel room for one hundred and fifty for an hour, more if they were to stay the night. Then she wondered how much she should charge to let me make love to her. This was after we had eaten, and were waiting for our plates to be cleared, and it was just as she was asking this that the waiter came and stood discretely behind her until she had finished. I had drawn out a reasonable amount of cash in case we needed it. Sensing an opportunity I took out my wallet and counted out three fifty euro notes. I put them on the table close to her, amused that the waiter was watching as I did so. "Just one hour?" Caroline asked. "You don't want me to stay the night?" I took out another four notes and put them with the first three. Caroline picked up the notes, folded them in two, and put them inside her black plastic clutch purse. The waiter coughed, asked if we had finished, and collected our plates. It was as Caroline had picked up the notes that I noticed that not only were her breasts naked, and her newly shaven pussy that people had been admiring all through our meal, but so too was my wife's left hand. The slender, white fingers that took three hundred and fifty euros from the table as payment for services she would render later, did not have a single ring between them. "What happened to your rings?" I asked. She smiled. "You've only noticed? I assumed that prostitutes don't wear wedding rings, so I left them in the safe in our hotel room. I thought you might like to celebrate our anniversary with someone you picked up and paid for." We skipped desert, but we had coffee. When our cups were drained Caroline asked if I was asking for the bill, and then said that she wanted to walk outside, dressed as she was, on her own, to see what it would feel like. She would walk on up along the canal for a bit and then come back and meet me outside the restaurant. It sounded daring, but the area seemed safe enough. I watched her get up and leave the restaurant. She went carefully down the stone steps outside, her skirt still unbuttoned to the waist. The breeze seemed to have increased a little, judging by the way the left side of her skirt blew wide open as she turned at the bottom of the steps. My wife disappeared from view. There were still plenty of people around. It was only around eleven. Hardly late for a Saturday night in Amsterdam, and the canal walkway was well lit. Before we came into the restaurant I had noticed a road crossing the canal a little further on, over a humped bridge, and I guessed that that was where Caroline would turn around. She should be fine. I signaled the waiter and paid the bill. I took my jacket from my chair. Then I realised that Caroline's jacket was on the third chair at the table, the one opposite my own. She had left it, presumably daring herself to go outside without it. I picked it up and went down the steps, looking to my left. I had to wait. At first I could not see her. Then I made her out, coming towards me, several groups of people in front of her. A hundred feet away, a guy walking the other way stopped her and spoke to her. He was in a business suit and he was only talking so I was not concerned. Caroline shook her head. He said something more. Caroline shook her head again. He walked on, and so did she. Red Light Risks As she approached I realised just how far my wife was from the church attending, loyal daughter that her parents had brought up. Her breasts were undulating with each step, the wide areoles very visibly moving from side to side beneath the flimsy gauze of her blouse, and her skirt was opening each time she reached forward with either of her legs, baring her pussy, displaying her pouting labia and her hairless mound. She reached where I was standing by the restaurant steps, grinning. "Did you see that?" she asked. "The guy?" "He just offered me a hundred euros. When I said no, he made it one hundred and fifty, to go to his flat for half an hour." "Were you tempted?" I asked. "No," she said. "I'd never actually do it. But it's nice to be offered more than the going rate. It was the third time as well." I was not surprised. If I had been in Amsterdam on my own, and seen her walking by the canal, I might have tried my luck. I might even have offered to pay. She was definitely worth more than the going rate. "Shall we go back?" I asked. I knew exactly what I wanted to do to her when we got back to our hotel room, and I could see no reason to delay that any longer. "Okay," Caroline said, starting to walk. "But stay this side of the canal. I'll meet you at the central station square. I did not understand what she meant until I saw her cross the walkway diagonally to the only canal crossing on its entire length, a wooden pedestrian bridge with steps on either side and a flat walkway in the centre. Amused that my reserved wife wanted more time walking on her own, I watched her cross over, and then kept pace with her on my side of the canal as she walked back towards the station square. Almost immediately, she was stopped again, this time by a guy in jeans and a top. Again she shook her head. He tried again. She shook her head again. I wondered how much this guy was offering to fuck my wife. I had to admit that I could not blame him, or the guy in the suit, or the others that I had not seen. If you flash your breasts and cunt like that in a red light district, and have a body half as good as hers, guys will want to buy the goods. The guy walked on, but this time she did not get off completely. Even from the other side of the canal I heard him shout back over his shoulder at her as she walked on. "Cunt!!" To Caroline's credit, she just walked on. But it was a warning. My wife was playing a dangerous game. I went back to keeping pace with her. At a sex club, she slowed, looking at the large backlit photos on either side of the open foyer. One of the doormen said something to her. She laughed, shook her head, and walked on. Later she told me he had invited her inside for free. We passed the sex museum on my side, where Caroline had started to unbutton her skirt and had flashed the two guys on the stairs. Since leaving the restaurant her skirt had been open even higher, right to the waistband, just a double button still holding it around her. On Caroline's side of the canal there was a break in the neon, no clubs, bars or restaurants for a couple of hundred feet. There were still people, but fewer than on my side. Another guy tried it on, jeans and a white shirt, holding her arm as he spoke to her. Caroline did her head shake yet again. This guy was not so easily turned away. He used his size to draw her to the wall of the building she had been passing. He seemed to be insistent. My wife was shaking her head, turning him down, whatever the offer was, but clearly his grip on her elbow was too strong for her to walk away. Instead, he turned her back against the wall, standing over her, intimidating her with his size. People just walked on by. Watching them I realised that this was probably just an everyday scene on a Saturday night in Amsterdam. It was no one else's business. Except it was my wife, which made it my business, and I thought rapidly, realising that whether I went back to the footbridge Caroline had crossed, or to the station end of the canal and crossed over there, even sprinting, it would be minutes before I reached her. Then I saw two other people running towards what was happening. They were coming from the station end of the canal, on Caroline's side, one taller than the other, both of them using regular, steady strides as if they were used to this kind of running, both in black, and the taller of the two doing something with some equipment near his shoulder as he ran. They stopped as they reached my wife. It could have been worse. A male and a female police officer had just come to her rescue. I could assume that she would be fine until I reached her, and so I started towards the station end of the canal as what I judged to be the closest way across. I checked every few paces, keeping track of what was happening, the female officer talking to my wife, the other talking to the guy in jeans, the female officer speaking into her radio, the male officer sending the guy in jeans on his way. Then I saw the car cruising silently up the walkway on their side of the canal, white, with a blue light bar on top, and blue and red diagonal stripes and the word 'Politie' on the side. What followed, when the car slowed to a standstill, happened so rapidly that there was nothing that I could have done. Although I was frozen to the spot, even if I had sprinted, the silent, electric Prius would have been gone before I had even reached the end of the canal on my side. Two more police officers climbed out, both male. They spoke briefly to the female officer, who then guided my wife to the car as one of the male officers opened a rear door. Caroline looked across the canal at me, horror on her face, as the female officer put her hand on my wife's head and guided her into the vehicle. The male officers, all three of them, climbed into the car, two in front, and one in the back, and a moment later the police car silently cruised away. It was almost three hours later before I saw my wife again. The female officer said something into her radio and started walking back towards the station square. I shadowed her on my side of the canal, wanting to find out what was happening. At the end of the canal I asked her if she spoke English. At first she assumed I had a separate problem, but I explained that it was my wife that she had just been dealing with. She was not sympathetic. My wife had been soliciting, which is not permitted on the canal walkway, just from the windows or in the sex clubs, and only under license. She would be held until the Monday morning, and then put before a magistrate, or alternatively she could accept a caution with a five hundred euros fine, and she would be released. It would be explained to my wife by the officers who had taken her, somewhere less public than the canal walkway. I tried to explain what had really happened, but the officer just shrugged. She was blonde, good looking, in her thirties, and she had heard it all before. It was not unusual for tourists to try their hand at prostitution as part of the fun for visiting the Red Light District. There were even women whose husbands liked the idea of someone paying to fuck their wife. But it caused this kind of problem for the police. I asked how the fine worked, and she explained that it had to be paid in cash. I knew that Caroline had only the three hundred and fifty euros I had given her in the restaurant. Ironically, those were immoral earnings, although based on a promise as yet unfulfilled. The point, however was that my wife would be one hundred and fifty euros short. Again the officer shrugged. Then she asked me to wait while she dealt with someone who was waiting to speak to her. I waited. There was nothing else that I could do. Fifteen minutes later, the police officer was free to talk again. I asked her if there was some way to sort out the rest of the fine. She shrugged. If it was just one hundred and fifty euros, that would be close enough. There were ways to make up the rest. When I asked what she meant, she gave me a look, and reminded me that there were three officers with my wife. It would not be a problem. She left me to work out the rest for myself. Three officers. The going rate was fifty euros for twenty minutes. Caroline would have the chance to earn the money that she needed. I checked my wallet. I could more than cover the money in cash. I asked if I could sort it out. The officer asked me to wait, then spoke into her radio. A male voice answered. The female officer spoke for a minute or so, explaining what I had said. The officer at the other end acknowledged what she had said, and the radio went quiet. Maybe two minutes later, he spoke again. This time the officer on the radio did the talking, and the female officer just grunted to confirm that she understood. There was a final sign off with her saying thank you. Then she looked at me. The woman was not wearing a wedding ring, she said, and the officers had no reason to believe that she was married. She had told them that the money that she had was from someone she had promised to spend the night with, but said nothing about a husband. She had already agreed term with her the officers who were with her. There would be no need for me to pay the remainder of the fine. I could only assume that the male officer who had spoken on the radio was lying. I could almost understand why. My wife has a good body, and she was displaying it. If the police turned down my money, without telling her about the offer, she would have no choice except to earn the one hundred and fifty euros that she needed, in the only way that was left to her. I had tried. It was not going to work. I walked away, back to our hotel, thinking about how Caroline would be earning the money to pay her fine, three times fifty euros, three times twenty minutes. It was a little after two in the morning when my wife knocked on our hotel room door. I had not been sleeping. I had been on the bed, wide awake, and thinking. Picturing. Caroline's skirt was no longer open to the waist, but two of the buttons of her blouse were not just undone, but missing, so that one side fell open, baring the edge of her areole. Her red lipstick was gone, as if it had never been there. Her hair was unkempt. Her legs were bare, her stockings gone. She just stood in the doorway, her face expressionless. "You'd better come in," I said. "I need," my wife said, as soon as I had closed the door. "I need a shower." She did not wait for an answer. She walked into the en-suite, closed the door and bolted it. I heard the water running. It was half an hour before she emerged, naked, but dry, carrying her skirt and blouse in one hand, walking to the bin by the dressing table, and dropping them into it. I had been lying on the bed, waiting. I was still dressed. I had not felt like going to bed or getting any sleep all the time that I had been waiting for her to get back. Caroline stood by the dressing table, unmoving, her back to me. Her dark hair fell down her white back. She still looked beautiful. "You should get into bed," I said. As I got up, she turned, gave me a look, still devoid of expression, and walked to the other side of the bed, slipping under the duvet to lie on her back, her head on the pillow, the duvet pulled right up to her chin. I got undressed and climbed in with her, lying side by side for a time, and then reaching out my arm, inviting her closer. She turned towards me, and came right in, her head in the crook of my shoulder, her breasts against my side, one leg beside mine, the other across my upper thigh, her knee nudging my cock. "You're hard," she said. It might have been a simple statement or an accusation. Either way it was accurate. My cock had been hard for the best part of three hours, all the time that I had been waiting for her to get back to the hotel, and while she had been showering, because all that time I had been thinking about how my wife would have been paying off that fine. Somehow it did not seem appropriate to have an erection, given what my wife had just gone through. I knew that. My cock did not have that level of emotional sophistication. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's okay," she said. "It makes me feel better. I felt so guilty." "It's okay," I said, to reassure her. It was my turn to say those words. "They said you offered to pay the money that I didn't have," she said. "They said you would not accept it." "They wouldn't let me," my wife said. "They said I had to pay the fine myself. That was the way it worked." "Then it's not your fault." "I still feel guilty," she said, adding more a moment later. "There's something I have to tell you." I waited without speaking, but I caressed her hair, to let her know that I was listening, and that I still loved her. "When they did it," she said. "I mean, actually doing it,... Not at first, but once the first of them was in me,... fucking me, I mean,... well, it's hard to say but it felt,... good." "I felt bad about enjoying it. I mean, I shouldn't have. I've never wanted,... you know that don't you?" "It's okay," I said, listening to her, taking in what she was telling me, that another man had not just made love to her, but that she had liked it. Hearing it made my stomach churn, but did nothing to abate my stiff erection. "It was at the end of a quite alley," she went on. "They parked, and they explained the law, and they asked me how much money I had in cash with me, so I told them." "They said that they could help me. It would not be illegal. It was illegal to look for look for custom on the street, but if I wanted to earn the rest of the money that I needed, they could help." I knew that that was what they would have said. "There was a canal crossing the alley. It had a metal rail. They took off my skirt and had me hold the rail and bend forwards so that,.... you know." I could picture Caroline like that, fishnet stockings, transparent blouse, naked white buttocks, a police officer with his fly unzipped standing behind her, his cock head in his hand, aiming at her entrance." "I must have been quite wet," she said. "The first slid in so easily... Then he was fucking me,... and,... and, well,... I liked what he was doing,... what I was doing,... looking down,... at the water,... letting a stranger fuck me,... it felt good,... I'm sorry,... that's just how it was." I said nothing. Caroline continued. "He came," she said. "Inside me I mean.... They all did.... I used the shower, but,...." I knew what she meant. As I said, we had been trying, and now three men had come inside my wife, and without asking I knew from Caroline's description that none of them had worn protection. "We can deal with that tomorrow," I said. "We'll find a chemist's." "Yes, please," she said. Then she said the words that will stay with me for ever. "I came." Those two words hovered in the air like angels of despair for long minutes after she had said them, neither of us adding to them, as I took in what my wife had just shared with me, and as Caroline waited for my reaction. Finally I said that only thing that I could find to say, regardless of how I felt, possibly because I was reduced to feeling absolutely nothing. "It's okay," I said. Why she wanted to explain, I am not sure, but she seemed to need to, and so I let her. "It was the last guy," she said. "He made me take off my shoes and stockings." "He,... he used one stocking to tie my wrists,... to the railing I was leaning on,... and then,... then he used the other,... he tied it like a gag,... like he knew what he was doing,... like he had done that before." "He made me wait.... I could see,... over my shoulder,... he was taking off his boots,... his socks,... his trousers,... his underwear." "I could see his cock was big,.. I mean not just long,... it was thick,... it had this purple head,... and he had a ring,... there was a ring,... through the eye,... it looked like steel, I think,... he was grinning,... asked me if I had ever had a PA before,... then he went behind me." I knew what the letters stood for. Prince Albert supposedly had had his cock pierced to tame his large penis in the tight trousers that were the fashion of the day. What I could not take in was that my wife had just had a cock with this piercing, inside her, thrusting, and coming, ejaculating, spewing this guy's semen deep inside. "He ripped my blouse... He made me feel like,... I mean,... as if he was just forcing me,... I mean he paid me,... like the others,... but it didn't feel like that,... it felt like I was being,..." She never finished that sentence. She never said the word, but I knew which word it was. She was already saying more than enough, more than I wanted to hear, but it was as if she need to say it all, to get it all out in the open, keep nothing from me. "I think,..." she said. "I think reaching an orgasm is in your head... Not that it didn't feel good,... because it did.... He knew how,... I mean he was experienced,... he was slow and considerate,.. until he knew I could take it all,... and then,... I guess you would call it rough." I could only imagine what she meant by rough. Holding her by her pelvic girdle. Driving himself into her, again and again and again. "But, it wasn't just,... the way he,... he fucked me... It was knowing how big his cock was,... and the ring,... knowing it was inside me... It was thinking about it,... and then he started on my breasts... I could help it... If it hadn't been that he had gagged me,... I think the whole of Amsterdam would have heard." After she finished, there was silence, only the occasional vehicle outside disturbing it. "It's okay," I finally said. We lay silent again for a while, and then Caroline reached for my cock and started stroking it. Minutes later, her head was in my lap and she was sucking on it. Minutes after than, she was astride me, and my cock was in her cunt. At some point Caroline leaned forward and whispered in my ear. "It wasn't what I'd planned, but this is your Anniversary fuck." Time passes. You get back home and back into routine, with work, weekends, friends, and family. We had bought a morning after pill, and had no worries about unwanted pregnancy, and we both got tested a few weeks later to rule out any other risks. The Dutch police, if nothing else, at least are clean, even the officers who have been pierced and wear a ring. We are still trying for a family, but it was a conversation two weeks ago that made me write up what had taken place. We had been making love. Caroline had orgasmed. I had come, inside her of course. If you are trying for a family, then that is what you do. We were talking, and came back to something we had been thinking of, another weekend break, perhaps somewhere warmer, like Barcelona. That was when Caroline said that there was something that she had never told me, about Amsterdam, and that maybe now she could be honest about what had really happened, and I would not mind. In the police car, in the alley, as they had explained about the caution and the fine, Caroline had worked out where it was inevitably leading. Then the officer who later on turned out to have the ring had taken the call from the woman officer that I was speaking to. He had told my wife that her husband was prepared to pay the fine, and had offered to drive her back to the station square. My wife said that she had told them that she was not married, but there had been a guy who had paid her to come to his hotel with him, which was why she had the money. If that was the guy who was offering to pay, she did not want to owe him any more. She would rather do what they had suggested before my call. Red Light Risks Listening, I believed her. It tied in exactly what the woman officer had said to me in the station square. She looked at me, waiting for my reaction. Time passes. "It doesn't matter," I said. "It's done. It's in the past. It's okay." Caroline came close. "Thank you," she said. There was a pause before she added the question that I have not yet answered. "What should I buy for Barcelona?" As I said, I had already come, but in spite of that, my cock began to harden.