Ulalia's Story: The A-Z of Trophy Wives, #21

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 exotic beauty, cross white South African and Chinese Asian, was brought up in the US. Married to a lawyer who works every hour God sends, she's finding life is getting on top of her. His six-figure salary and bonuses keep her in a style that belies her humble roots, but there are only so many "good" things a girl can do in the daytime.

One afternoon she's accosted in the street by a drunk who thinks she's a whore. She slaps him and stalks away, horrified.

The idea, though, has been planted deep in her psyche, and over time it grows, aided and abetted by her best friend, who has an unusual sex toy habit.

Four months later, to help her friend secure a contract, Ulalia finds herself surrendering control in ways she'd never have previously considered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.D. Grey
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223512998

Book preview

Chapter 1

As soon as my cell chirped with an incoming text message, I knew what it would say. It had been Spencer’s idea to program my phone with distinctive ring tones for each person. I’m not sure my father would approve of knowing Spencer had set my phone up to play the Imperial March from Star Wars whenever he rang. I’d left it. The fact it was now the Baby Shark tune playing told me the text was indeed from Spencer. Why he thought that was a fun tune to program to announce himself, I have no idea. Still, if it amused him and didn’t bother me too much, there wasn’t any harm in it, right? My friends tended to think it was cute.

It wasn’t the ringtone that annoyed me, it was what I knew would be the message content once I clicked on it. Since it was not quite ten-thirty in the morning, there was no way it wouldn’t be telling me he was going to be late.

To be fair, he’d warned me at the weekend that this week was going to be worse than usual. Usual was him coming home sometime before seven or eight at the latest. Regular twelve-hour days were the norm for his place. This week, though, they had a big triangular deal to broker and sort out the contract for. The Far East, London, and a big local client. Just managing the time zones made it a doozy. He’d warned me he might not get home much before ten some nights this week. It appeared tonight was going to be one of those nights.

With a sigh of pure resignation, I picked up my cell and let it glimpse my face so I could read his message.

Sorry, baby. Tonight is a big deal. Time zones and that. Be at least ten before I get away. I might not even be home until tomorrow. Brad’s staying in the suite downstairs, so he doesn’t have to make the journey. Love you. See you later a lot later. XXX

Nothing I didn’t know, other than the fact the senior partner was staying overnight. I raised an eyebrow at that. In itself, it wasn’t unusual for someone to crash in the apartment they maintained on the fifth floor of their downtown building. It was, however, unusual for one of the senior partners to do that. Since we lived a mere fifteen-minute ride from the office, Spencer never needed to. I had my own suspicions about that place. Was it just a crash pad? Or did one, or two, or more, of them use it for more nefarious purposes? Things they didn’t want their wives to find out. The odd call girl, maybe?

I texted back a simple emoji, not feeling like summoning up the energy for a fuller reply. Knowing it might happen was one thing, knowing I would actually be spending the night on my own was another. Still, at least I had lunch to look forward to.

My mood brightened at that thought. Lunch with Darla was always fun, even if she could be a bit overwhelming. That reminded me, I still needed to sort out what I was going to wear. That was the thing about lunch with Darla, something that had become a weekly tradition between us. We each had to dress more outrageously than the other.

In winter, that had mean skinnier and skinnier jeans, or in her case, skin-tight PVC pants. I’d stuck to denim, but still, they’d appeared to be sprayed on. Spring meant tight-knit fabrics that offered some warmth, for those parts of the skin that weren’t exposed. Now, early summer, it could be nothing other than short skirts. Short didn’t mean miniskirts. No, short meant micro-mini, a lot shorter than most women would consider wearing. I had a couple I’d worn before, but I knew Darla would be going even further.

That meant it was time to bring out the big guns. Not just short, but lightweight. In the wind canyons of New York, that could be dangerous. Short but tight with weighted hems was a sensible choice. No, today, I didn’t feel like being practical. I had a nice, not-quite designer label, more second tier, floaty floral print skirt. Just turning around sent it spiraling out, and up. Anything more than a gentle breeze, and it could turn inside out in no time at all.

I knew it was a little risky, but I felt I could control it if I had to, even if a stray gust did catch it. Wind conditions at street level were affected by the tall buildings around you. Not a lot you could do about that, all you could do was hang on and hope the gust didn’t stay too strong, too long. I was going to go bare-legged too. Stockings were a non-starter. The hem of the skirt wouldn’t reach the tops of the stockings by at least a couple of inches. Given how petite I am, that must give some idea of how ridiculously short my flouncy lightweight skirt was.

I wasn’t entirely without modesty. I teamed the skirt with underwear that, if not full, was at least opaque silk rather than translucent lace. If the skirt went up at the back, I might be flashing a little cheek, but not more than that. The front was covered too, and the panties weren’t so tight that they’d form a camel toe. With such a bright-colored skirt, it had to be teamed with a plain top. I went with white, and, of course, to keep it as sexy as possible, tight. Short-sleeved and scoop-necked to show quite a cleavage, it molded itself to my chest. At least the silk bra underneath didn’t show any contours through. However, the thin material did allow my nipples to poke noticeable bumps into the material of the top. I smiled to myself. Despite Darla’s urgings, I’d never gone down the same route as her. The gold bar through her nipple made wearing something as tight as my top too embarrassing for her. With pierced nipples, the top would reveal far too much detail. No, she had to wear more up top, although, knowing my friend as well as I did, there’d still be a hell of a cleavage on show. There always was.

My high heels were the pair Spencer called my CFMs. Closed-toe, shiny patent leather with a three-inch hele. I needed the height, and they made my legs look even better. He loved what they did for my legs, and when we went out together, which wasn’t as often as I’d like, and wore them, he’d spend the evening stroking my leg. Well, not quite true. He’d start by stroking my leg, but by the time we’d moved on from the fish course, his hand would be a lot higher. I sighed again. This wasn’t a productive chain of thought. I knew his job kept us in the style I liked, and sometimes he had to work especially late. Didn’t mean it didn’t get lonely, though.

* * * *

Ula! The way Darla’s cry cut through the crowd in the bistro sounded more like the triumphant yell of one of the Martians from War of The Worlds that it did her calling a friend.

There was a momentary hush as everyone’s head seemed to be on a swivel as they tried to look who was calling out, and just as importantly, who she was calling to. Not many people spotted who had yelled like that, and fewer of them noticed me.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. A large number of the guys in the place were looking at me. I guess I was used to it. I mean, large-breasted blonde with an exotic complexion, wearing a short skirt and heels. What’s not to look at? To be honest, I loved being looked over like that. I just made sure to keep my ring set on view, letting anyone who might try something on that I was already taken. This being New York, that didn’t stop everyone, but it did cut the numbers down to a manageable size. Look but can’t touch meant something to enough of them.

I walked through to the back of the bistro, and Darla rose from her chair for the obligatory air kiss. It appeared she’d had the same wardrobe conversation with herself that I had had. She looked seriously sensational in an off the shoulder gypsy style top. Not only was it off the shoulder, but it was pulled damned low in the front. I didn’t think she was wearing a bra, there wasn’t room in there without it showing. She wasn’t showing cleavage, she was showing the entire upper slopes of her breasts. Outrageous to a fault, I doubted there was as much as a half an inch between the edge of the material and the top of her areolas. The skirt was short too, as short as mine, although for once not shorter. It was a tight one, and as she sat back down and crossed her legs, it rode up. I just had to assume she was wearing underwear down there. Knowing Darla, I wouldn’t put it past her to go commando, even though the skirt was so short.

How are you, sweetie?

I’m good, you?

"Fine. Look, I hate to cut things short, but I gotta go in forty-five mins or so. So I’ve already ordered. Hope Pastrami on rye is good for you? I know you like Pastrami,