A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (10 page)

And if Jordan was the woman at the bar in the gray dress, then everything leading to this point – my suspicions – fell into a new class. A very probable class.

Jordan
was
lying.

Jordan
was
having an affair
.

My stomach went ice-cold.

But it was peculiar, the kind of icy fingers that were working their way around my insides. They felt awful, but they also felt delicious.

I was up all night, my cock ready to go again, thinking about the evidence against my wife. All of it pointing to her being a lying, cheating whore. And then to the new, spectacular ways she was fucking me. And then to my fantasies.

Where Jordan was even more filthy, even more experimental, even more of a whore. With the men she was, it seemed, picking up at bars.

“Are you satisfied with our sex life?” I said, as she rolled over to her other side, facing away from me. She was still half-asleep, and she waved her hand up dismissively. She grinned, but she didn't open her eyes. The question wasn't fair, she was saying. Not when she was only trying to roll over.

“Turn out the light,” she mumbled.

I did. And I sat in the dark, spinning my fantasies until I was nearly insane.

Spinning them until in the morning, I was planning to call in, claiming to be incredibly ill, and spend the day spying on Jordan.

This was incredibly, outrageously, ludicrously insane, I realized in the shower. I was a fucking district attorney, planning to fake illness, to spy on my wife. I was coming undone. I was going to lose my fucking job.

I went to work, determined not to let this...whatever it was...take over my life. I turned on talk radio and tried to listen, to get Jordan out of my mind. The taste of her, the lies she was telling, the way her body had rippled, like hot silk, all around my fingers when she came. The sound she would make when another man filled her ass with his big, thick cock...

But long before I reached the city, I found myself exiting the interstate.

Holland Drive to Santa Fe. Santa Fe to Orlando.

Parallel parking between a van and a bike.

And then my hand was on the dirty knob of the door to Wilburton Investigations. And within half an hour, I was talking to Ricky across his broad, oak desk.

N
O FURTHER QUESTIONS

Ricky didn't ask any questions. If I had talked to my wife, what she had said, why I was back...nothing. He took my very large deposit, in the form of a money order, in the event Jordan ever went through my bank account.

“I have more information,” I said. I told him the whole story, and once I started I couldn't stop. It felt good to be spilling my soul out to someone, even if it was a PI and I knew he ultimately didn't care about my feelings. A consummate professional, he listened, made notes, and judged nothing with his expression or his words. When I was done, he stroked his beard. He looked at his notes.

“The place to start then,” he said, “would be to follow her from work, I suppose?”

He wasn't really asking, but I nodded.

Ricky ordered some papers, and smiled at me. “I'll be in touch in a week, regardless. Sooner, if I have something else. Try to put things out of your mind, get caught up on your work.” He looked down at his folder. “You want pictures, I assume?”

I nodded again, and he checked a small box on a pre-printed sheet of paper. The letters at the top swarmed at me, and then formed the title:

Surveillance Order for Spouse/Partner.

I looked at Ricky, who had an impenetrable expression that I supposed was the best thing to have in a job like this. I wondered, if behind his inscrutable poker face, he knew that I was the kind of man who wasn't entirely sure why I was here. The kind of man who was hiring a private detective to catch his wife, but who didn't know whether to hope he turned up nothing, or jerk off in the shower thinking about what he might find.

And hopefully, as twisted as it sounded, get a picture of.

Is that what I wanted?

I had no idea.

C
ONVICTION

As it seemed to go on this roller-coaster ride with Jordan, things went back, very much, to “normal” again for several days. Having relieved myself of the surveillance of my wife, but feeling guilty and conflicted about it, I threw myself into catching up on work that had really gone to hell. The end of the term was approaching and I was, actually, going to be fired if I didn't get my act together.

Jordan was asleep most nights when I arrived home, her face a picture of angelic innocence, her brow untroubled, her respiration slow and steady.

How could she be the duplicitous woman I suspected her of being? I thought. Again, in spite of the evidence, I began to doubt my conviction.

But Thursday I came home to find Olivia watching TV on the couch alone. She greeted me with a jerk of her head and mumbled that Jordan was at the gym.

I saw her, though, from the kitchen, as she found her phone next to her on the couch and, without setting her bowl of cereal down, typed a message on it.

It was 9:30.

I went to the study and forced myself to read through my assistant's briefs. I had been saddled with an intern who seemed to only have been admitted to law school to begin with because of some family connection, and who only got the coveted internship for the same reason. She was awful, and somehow converted boiler-plate motions to utter gibberish when asked to modify minor details. Ultimately, my paranoid delusions about my wife and Cassie Davis' incompetence, were going to combine and destroy my career.

I heard the garage door at 10:37. I rose and moved to the doorway. In the kitchen I heard whispered exchanges between Jordan and Olivia.

I moved back to my desk and put my hands behind my head.

What was it, I wondered, that Jordan needed to seek outside of our marriage? Why like this, with evening dates, with fat men, going to bars? Was that it? She wanted to go out to dinner or get some drinks?

Or was it something else? Something physical? Some twisted sexual game she wanted to play and couldn't tell me about?

I wondered, briefly, if she was one of those rape fantasy women.

But why wouldn't she just tell me?

And no, it didn't add up.

“Hey.”

Jordan's voice was breathy. She was standing in the doorway; I could see her reflection in the window. I swiveled in my chair and looked at her.

She was dressed in her gym clothes, all right.

“Oh...kay,” she said. “Hello to you, too.”

I blinked.

“Your hair always looks so...un-mussed after the gym,” I ventured.

Jordan squinted. She reached up to her head, and patted it. “What the heck are you talking about?” she said.

God, she was good.

Shaved pussy, working out more, fancy clothes...you should have known about this affair ages ago.

She stepped forward, apparently not truly interested in what the heck I was talking about. Apparently unaffected by my strange mood. I still had my hands clasped at the back of my head.

She came to the chair, and pushed my spread legs closed with her knees so that she could plop herself onto my lap.

I inhaled her scent.

She did smell like sweat. And sandalwood. Not fresh, like a shower.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said. She put her arms on my shoulders. Her breasts pressed against my chest. “I have just been stretching in all these weird positions, and this class was really long, really boring, and all I could do the whole time was think about sex.”

Sex with who, Jordan?

She was grinning.

Was she telling me this class was so long to cover up for how late she was getting home? Was this another night she had left in a cab and changed her clothes before she got home?

If it was, she was shameless. She had no remorse as she squirmed on top of me, biting her lower lip, her eyes glowing with mischief.

My cock, of course, was not responding with the same reservation as I was. Instead, it was getting hard beneath Jordan's soft weight, and she was rubbing herself against it, bringing me to a boil.

“Jordan,”

“Shhh,” she said. “Just give me five minutes of your time, and then I'll be done with you.”

I was paralyzed by her words, and by her fingers, which she was using to unbuckle my pants. She did it without looking, like it was something she did all the time. Maybe from practice? And certainly not on me.

This woman, who was digging into my pants, and then squeezing my cock, was
not
my wife. This was not the woman I had married. Whether it was my fault or not that she had transformed into something else, someone else, while I wasn't looking was...well...a question for another…

Jordan had my cock out, and she was stroking it now. Her face had a devious grin.

I still didn't move, or know what to do. I just stared at her.

She slid down to the floor, and without any warning or teasing, took me inside of her mouth. She swallowed my cock whole, all the way to the base. She hollowed her cheeks to suck on me – hard – and I looked up at the ceiling, breathing out.
Fuck.
She was practically sucking the cum from my balls, through my cock, like a straw.

I grasped her hair, and the movement of her head, bobbing on my cock, stirred my arousal even more.

I was nearing the point of no return, when she suddenly stopped, and stood up.

She pulled her yoga pants and underwear down in one swift movement. Still suspicious, though powerless to do anything about it, I sniffed the air. She smelled like...yoga.

Or did she?

She gave me no time to think about it. She climbed onto my lap, and slipped her sopping wet pussy onto my cock.

Her body was warm, soft, exquisite, and she rocked against me until we both came, in just minutes.

Then she slid off of me, and kissed me. She made nothing of my stunned face.

So sure. This woman was not my wife. Not the woman I'd married. She was probably having an affair.

I was convinced, I reminded myself, that she was having an affair.

Did it matter? Was it even true?

I was dizzy. I was confused. I was having the best sex of our marriage.

Conviction, the non-legal kind, the kind that lives in the heart, is a funny, funny thing.

P
HOTOS

Ricky called me, as promised, a week later.

“You'll want to stop by,” he told me.

“Any way you can come to me?” I said. “Meet for coffee?” Ricky's office was halfway across town.

There was lengthy pause. “It's a policy of mine to have people meet me here,” he said.

I closed my eyes. My heart was plummeting, because I knew what that meant. Meet him there, to avoid a public scene. To be able to assess if I should be locked in his office for a while. Searched for weapons. Referred to a lawyer friend.

At the same time, I felt a raw, intoxicating excitement. My pulse was racing and it was not out of anger or even fear: I was excited. I was already imagining pictures, and what would be in them. Black and whites, tucked in an envelope, Jordan's pretty face obscured by the back of a man's head. Jordan laughing and holding hands. Jordan through a window with her hands twisted behind her back, taking off her bra. The back of Jordan’s head, her long auburn mane unmistakable, right at the midsection of a businessman, his head turned up to the ceiling as her mouth closed around his cock...

“Paddy?”

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I'll come...I'll be by in the afternoon.”

“I'm here at three to three-thirty or after six. Surveillance.”

“Okay. Three then.” My voice was robotic, my mind detached and floating in a sea of filthy images in black and white. My cock was pressing painfully against my pants and I could do nothing about it...my door was open and anyone could look over and see me adjust it.

Jordan's tits, pal white with black nipples, bouncing over the fit torso of a prone man, her hands on his abs, her mouth open and smiling, her pussy filled up with his cock.

I have no idea how the conversation ended. The phone began to scream in my ear and startled me from my reverie.

I wasn't so much stunned that Jordan was having an affair, and had been caught.

I had known that, hadn't I?

I was something else.

I was like a kid at Christmas, unable to wait.

I wanted to see the pictures. 

So this is where I really lost it.

I sat in my car in the parking lot of Ricky's building, staring at the pictures he had given me. He had asked me to stay for about twenty minutes, presumably sizing up how ballistic I was going to go. I had kept my cool, told him I just wanted confirmation of what I already knew. I would be in touch if I needed more. Bill me.

Then I walked, rubber-legged, to the parking lot and collapsed in the car.

So it was all true. She was having an affair.

And from the evidence, including what I had seen in The Mile, she was having more than one affair.

Many affairs.

Struttin' her stuff, all over town.

I looked at the man in the pictures.

This man was dark-haired. In great shape, from what I could see by the way he pressed out his tailor-made suit. Was that fucking Armani? Rich, good-looking.

Jordan was leaning close to him in one photo, smiling, her ear close to his mouth.

What secret was he telling her? Some dirty, delicate thing he would do to her, as soon as they disappeared?

Jordan's dress in this picture was an incredibly sexy black dress, cut very low to show off her tits. They hung, beautifully, in full view in one of the pictures. Her hand was on the man's forearm.

I squinted. Her left hand.

No wedding ring.

The pain that clawed inside of me was a new kind. It was so much more real. Now everything was so much worse.

Now it was all very, very real.

She was really doing this. My wife.

And with more than one man.

I sifted through the pictures again and again.

I thought of Ricky's face as I left the office. “Now don't do anything stupid,” he had warned me.

I tossed the pictures in the passenger seat.