Quinn's Story: The A-Z of Trophy Wives, #17

By D.D. Grey

They're young, beautiful, with fast cars and luxury homes—with absentee, older husbands. Bored and lonely, each of our trophy wives has her own solution.

 

The stunning blonde was just a few inches too short to make it as a catwalk model, but at 20, she'd posed for a few pictures and enjoyed the experience. Now eight years later, she's happily married to a much older man who adores her.

She's not too happy with her life on a pedestal, but her lifestyle would be the envy of many. She's never told him about the modeling, so when a copy of those old pictures appears in the mail, she's both horrified and nervous.

After a week, a second set arrives, including the most explicit ones, and she knows she's going to be blackmailed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.D. Grey
• Release date: Sep 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223597964

Book preview

Chapter 1

I waited until Phil shut the door behind him before I pulled my robe closed and covering the breast he’d bared as he kissed me goodbye. It had become something of a ritual, me letting him have a quick grope and caress before he left for work. In the last few weeks, it had become more explicit, to the point that four days out of five, he’d have one of my breasts exposed by the time he pulled away. I wasn’t complaining, to be honest, I liked the attention. His hand on my breast was a signal as far as I was concerned, letting me know he wanted more of what he’d just had that morning. Sometimes it felt hard to keep up with my randy goat of a husband.

It was one of the reasons I only pulled a robe on after my shower. There seemed no point in getting dressed as that would deny both of us the pleasure of our early morning grapple. In any case, he’d managed to rip a couple of my tops, and one of my nighties before I gave in and left them off. I could get dressed after he’d left. Don’t get me wrong. My husband wasn’t nasty, crude, or violent when he did this. It was just his way of making sure I knew he was boss. I liked it like that but had decided to wear just a robe in the mornings in order to protect my wardrobe. Phil, as he had been this morning, was very appreciative. My pussy tingled from the feel of his finger buried inside me as I leaned on his shoulder, looking at the headlines in the paper.

Glancing out of the front window, I could see the flag was up on the mailbox. That was a bit odd. The postman was never this early. Making sure I had the belt tied securely around my waist, I headed out to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. It was still early, I’d always been an early riser, and Phil liked to beat the traffic into work. So it was closer to seven-thirty than eight. I doubted our postman had even reached, let alone left, the depot by now. Maybe it was just kids messing around. There again, why hadn’t Phil dealt with it?

There was one envelope in the box, a brown one, rather thick and heavy. There was also no stamp and no franking on it. The address was right, but the name caught my attention—Mrs. Quinn Porter nee Kingston. Nobody had referred to me by my maiden name in the four years since we’d married. In many respects I’d almost forgotten I used to be Miss Kingston, I’d always been just Quinn to everyone I met.

I walked back up the driveway slowly, weighing the package in my hand, puzzled by what it was and what it might be. There was no clue on the outside and no return address. As I climbed the porch, I heard a piercing wolf whistle and turned around, one foot on the higher step to see. A teenage boy rode past, his face split in a huge grin, but his attention was focused lower. I glared at him then looked down, gasping as I realized my robe was a bit short to be standing outside in. The silk barely covered my crotch, which was why Phil liked it so much. Why I liked it too, I loved the way my husband could get handsy over his morning coffee. Since I was climbing the porch steps, the robe had ridden up. I didn’t think I’d flashed the cheeky kid anything, but I had shown him pretty much the entire length of my legs.

My face burned with embarrassment as I rushed inside and slammed the door. Damn, when had I become so susceptible to a mere wolf whistle? Just walking to college, back in the day, had been enough to garner half-a-dozen or more most days, unless it was raining or winter when I tended to cover up more. It had been an excellent start to my day. Now, a mere eight years later, here I was flustered and embarrassed by a single whistle, a sound I hadn’t heard that often in the last few years.

I leaned back against the door, the package still in my hand, and then looked down the length of my body. A slow smile lit my face. My nipples had hardened and clearly showed as bumps on the front of my robe. Phil had got them both hard earlier, but they’d subsided before I nipped outside to check the mailbox. Now, they’d got hard once more as my body reacted to the compliment, albeit a rude one, given by the boy on the bike. I felt warm inside, a glow starting to replace the embarrassment. I guess it made me think I’d still got it. If you’ve got it, babe, flaunt it, would be the way Phil would have put it. And you, Quinn, have still got it.

My husband might be handsy, but he was also free with the compliments, and the loving gestures that made our marriage so strong. Tossing the package onto the breakfast bar, I left it there and headed upstairs to get dressed. I had a long day of cleaning planned, starting with our bedroom. After the marathon session last night, and the quickie this morning, the bedding was rather messy. I needed to start by changing the bed. I also wanted to give the en-suite a decent spruce up.

* * * *

As a result of my devotion to the necessary housework and chores upstairs, it was late morning before I decided a coffee and a break was in order. When I came downstairs, I spotted the package, which, to be honest, I’d forgotten about. A quick glance through the window showed the flag up again on the mailbox. Retrieving the mail turned up a couple of fliers and a letter for Phil. That was, at least, properly stamped and franked.

Settling down with my coffee at the breakfast bar, I turned the package over in my hands. The neat, handwritten script in black pen wasn’t one I recognized, not that I’m a handwriting expert or anything. It was a mystery, an enigma. There was nothing else on the outside of the envelope, nothing at all. No stamp, no postmark, and as I’d already established first thing, no return address. Well, the only way to resolve the mystery was to open the thick envelope.

The flap was Sellotaped down as well as glued, which was slightly odd, but there again, it might have just been reinforcing. I couldn’t think how it had got in the mailbox in the first place unless it had been hand-delivered.  Obviously, the postman had been while I’d been upstairs. Before I could open the package, I heard the ping as the washing machine finished, so I headed upstairs and transferred the bedding over to the dryer before returning downstairs again.

Well, I wasn’t going to solve anything by staring at it. It wasn’t like I’d got X-ray eyes. I did wonder, for a split-second, if there was something dangerous about it. There again, why would anyone send a suspicious package to an architect’s wife? That made no sense at all. Grabbing a kitchen knife, I slit the Sellotape open and let the contents spill out onto the countertop. Somehow, I’d managed to turn the package contents out, upside down. It contained about fifteen or so photographs, standard size, but they were all upside down. I stirred them around with a curious finger, but there wasn’t anything written on the back of any of them, nothing that I could see, anyway. Nor was there any kind of accompanying letter.

There was only one way I was going to understand this, so I gathered them up and flipped them over. They landed in a pile right in front of me, and I instantly recognized the top picture.

I’m sorry, I screamed. I could remember when they’d been taken, and why. It had been about eight years ago. There, right in front of me, my twenty-year-old self looked back up at me, smiling for the camera. That wouldn’t have been a problem. What was most definitely a problem, was what I was wearing, or rather, what little I was wearing for the camera while I smiled.

Oh, fuck! I’d hoped these images had been buried and buried for good. No way was I glad to see them, and I most definitely didn’t want my husband to see them.

Fuck!

Chapter 2

It had been a warm spring morning when Henri approached me. I knew him slightly, a friend of a friend, you might say. I also knew he was a photography student.

Hi, Quinn. How you doin’?

I shook my head. His impersonation of Joey’s greeting was spot on. Unfortunately for him, he looked nothing like the actor, nothing at all.

I’m good, you?

Doing good, except I’m looking for someone to do me a favor. A huge favor.

And your first thought was me?

To be honest, no, you’re the sixth or seventh.

I shook my head and gave him a hard but mock glare. A girl just loves to be told she’s the sixth or seventh choice for anything.

He colored up, almost wilting under the force of my glare. If I’d thought you’d have said yes, you’d have been my first choice, but I didn’t think you would, so I didn’t ask.

I couldn’t keep a straight face, and the glare morphed into a smile. God! Teasing.

He grinned back at me. "I know.