A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (16 page)

For some reason, that only made it hotter.

“It's against the rules,” Jordan said.

She had her playful voice on again. We were both getting wound up, I could see. I was starting to understand that part of what was turning me on so hard was how illicit this all was. It was all on a knife's edge, and we could tip over any moment.

I looked out at the street. Two girls, linked arm in arm, gave me a salacious smile and giggled. They could see what Jordan was doing. One of them gave me a thumbs-up.

“In fact,” Jordan said. “Everything we did tonight is very much against the rules. I could get fired.”

I exhaled as Jordan began to unbuckle my pants.

“Jordan, I...”

Her hand was hot against my cock, though. I wasn't about to stop her. I grabbed my suit jacket, and threw it over my crotch. It was still obvious what we were doing, if anyone bothered to look, but I felt better if my cock wasn't out there in the open.

She freed my cock, and looked out the window the other way as she began to stroke my shaft. She began slow, teasing me.

“Would you like it if I took it a little bit further?” she said.

My face was turning bright red, not from embarrassment but a heavy flush. “How far would you take it?” I squeaked.

She squeezed my cock.

She had somehow removed a cigarette from her purse with her one free hand, and she lit it. She turned quickly to me, and when she saw my raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “Cover,” she said, by way of explanation of her new smoking habit. She flitted her eyes at the passers-by on the street.

Her hand was now moving over the top of my shaft. My abs were tightening.

“Did you like what I said to that guy in the bar?” she said. “Because I can say it again, next time. And add a little something in.” She stroked my cock to emphasize her point: she could take it to the next level.

Jesus. Who is this woman?

“Oh god,” was all I could say.

“I've never done that,” she said. Her voice was breathy, like she was on the bed being fucked as she spoke to me. “But maybe you want me to?”

I closed my eyes and sputtered an exhale as my orgasm shuddered through me from the simple visual of Jordan placing her hand on another man's cock, over the fabric of his pants. As the haze of lust faded, I realized how public the setting was, how embarrassing it might have been to have a police officer tap on our car. I swept my eyes over the street and was relieved to see that no one had noticed us.

Jordan, cool as a cucumber, removed her hand, slicked the cigarette away, and turned on the blinker. Calmly, she pulled into traffic.

“You owe me one,” she said.

I
'VE DONE SOMETHING NAUGHTY

“This fucking shit. Shit, shit, shit, whores and fucking pimps, I swear to fucking God...”

Doug was in an unusual mood, one of ranting.

The accusations of corruption were now in full-blown investigative mode, and a special committee was now digging through our cases and interviewing everyone in the office, from the janitor all the way to Catherine Gates about every DUI since the dawn of time. I wasn't worried about it; I was clean. But I knew some things, and I was busy trying to figure out how I could keep my mouth shut about them and save my ethical soul, and perhaps also maneuver my way into Catherine's job. I was actually pleased to see the black suits marching around our office, carrying boxes. If Catherine was out, someone would have to take her place, and that person, hopefully, would be me.

Doug had been asked to leave his own office, so he was sitting at my assistant's desk, groaning about everything under the sun.

I put my feet up on the desk and put my hands behind my head. I had talked to Doug about it; he claimed to be clean as a whistle. “Relax, buddy. We get free take-out outta this.”

Doug muttered more cuss words but his face did light up a little.

The only downside to the whole business came in the form of a text from Jordan:

Bordello's 891 Canyon Street 8-10ish see you there?

This was really the only thing I cared about doing, all day long. Sure, I shuffled through my day and filed motions and listened to judges hollering from the bench and sat around in the time-freeze of jury deliberations, but all of that was on auto-pilot. My real mind was on whether I would receive a text from Jordan or not. Whether or not I would crank out my work as fast as I could, so I could leave and see Jordan, honey-trapping in her fucking hot dresses.

I typed.

Suits are here. I'm trapped.

Uncharacteristically, I made a frowning face.

There were often nights when I was unable to pull myself away from the office, and I was left to think about Jordan, dressed up and flirting with another man somewhere. These nights came with their own delicious pleasure, however. And usually, they came with a very, very sexy retelling of the evening later on at home.

I sighed, uncrossed my legs, and scooted myself under the desk to hide my growing erection. My cock had come to life thinking about the last time Jordan had told me about her “date,” on her knees with her lips just centimeters from the tip of my cock. I had gotten so worked up that my precum had actually dribbled onto her lips, and she had just kept talking, looking at me calmly with that wry little smile, as her lower lip turned creamy white with my smeared cum on it.

And that was just for starters.

My phone vibrated against my thigh.

We were technically under orders not to use our phones, but no one was really enforcing it. This investigation had been coming like a wide load on the highway for weeks now, and everyone who needed to had plenty of time to get a lawyer, ask IT for a “favor,” or lose files.

I looked. An image.

From Jordan.

The fact that I was supposed to turn my phone off, and hadn't, made it even more tantalizing. I held the phone on my seat, and opened the image. But I had to keep my eyes on the suits, and couldn't look down. Not yet. 

“What do you want?” Doug said.

“Huh?”

“To eat.”

“Oh. Uh...whatever.”

Doug didn't wait for me to change my mind, but punched his phone so the receiver popped up into his hand. He swung around theatrically and began to dial.

I looked down at the screen, next to my thigh.

It was a selfie, taken carelessly by Jordan – perhaps on purpose – in the bathroom at Arest Greene. She was wearing a skin-tight black dress with a deep plunge between her breasts. It was, thankfully, fairly long, coming to a few inches above her knee (otherwise she would have looked like a hooker). She was turned to the side, and I noted with appreciation how absolutely fabulous her body was looking. Not a scrap of flab, everything in perfect, tight curves. She looked fucking incredible.

“Done! Tamales. Chili rellenos. Burritos. The works,” Doug announced.

I stared at him. He was grinning broadly at me. Almost expectantly.

My mind was too caught up in Jordan's black dress to know what he wanted me to say.

“Hot,” Doug hissed.

For a second, it felt like he was reading my mind. Then I saw he was chuckling. He meant “spicy,” because he knew I could barely handle Rosario's mildest sauce.

I managed to roll my eyes.

Doug looked at me funny, then.

He's a big fat man, Doug, but when he wants to, he can move fast as lightning. His head was hanging down near his midsection and he had a clear view of my cell in my hand before I had a clue he was moving.

He lifted his bulky torso back up slowly.

“It's not what you're thinking,” I said. “It's got nothing to do with this.”

“Then you better put it away, man.”

I looked at him helplessly.

Doug rose up and held his hands up like croupier leaving a table. He left the room, shaking his head.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Another image. This one of her “mark.”

The man was young, maybe younger than me. Square jaw, broad shoulders, a fit physique beneath an expensive dress shirt. No tie. He had the intense, alpha-male stare of a day trader and hard partier. The picture had been taken surreptitiously, from maybe where Jordan's waist would be. Evidently she had not moved in on him yet.

Her message read:
Hot, huh?

Jesus Christ, Jordan was driving me fucking crazy.

I watched Doug walk by my office in the opposite direction he had gone. He was in full-on mutter mode. He didn't look in at me.

As well he shouldn't. He was right to wash his hands of the whole thing. I mean, there was nothing going here but wildly embarrassing sexy talk with my wife. I could turn over the phone if I was caught and get nothing more than a round of dirty rumors circulating the office. But Doug didn't know what I was doing. For all he knew I was texting someone to dump my files or giving them a heads-up.

The fact that Doug was distancing himself from me now reassured me, however, that he was also clean as a whistle in all this business.

I looked at the picture of Jordan's target for the evening. He was, in fact, quite attractive.

Hot,
I wrote, and then couldn't think of what else to say.

Take it further,
I wanted to write.

Touch his cock.

Let him kiss you.

Fuck him and film it.

I just didn't have the balls. I wasn’t even sure which one of those things I actually wanted her to do, or if I wanted her to do them at all.

I didn't send the message, not even the benign, “hot.”

I looked up. Waving at me from across the sea of cubicles outside the office was Charlie Burns, the notorious former CIA agent in Special Investigations.

It was my turn to be interviewed.

I held my jacket in front of me, and reluctantly turned off my phone. Doug might overlook what I was doing, but Charlie Burns wouldn't. But I have to say that even after all this work, getting to where I was in my career, looking at taking over for Catherine Gates in just months (or maybe sooner, by the looks of things), I was less concerned about blowing it than I ever thought I could be. The only thing on my mind was Jordan.

The interview lasted only half an hour. My mind was so deep inside of my fantasies about Jordan I barely remember sitting there, or answering any questions. The take-away was that I was in the clear and they just needed some details about a few other cases, to burn someone else's house down. I felt sure I was sweating, even under the heatless lights of the ratty “conference room.” No one noticed. I found myself saying goodbye and sitting, in a feverish sweat, in my office for the next twenty minutes. I had to play it cool. I wasn't in on anything illicit, but I knew what it would look like if I went scurrying away to the restroom or took out my phone. So I sat.

Twenty minutes is a long time to sit in a functionally bare government office, without a computer or a phone, thinking about what you know your wife is doing at that moment. My thoughts began mildly enough: images of Jordan with the handsome man, her face close to his and her eyes bright with interest as he told her about his job or his yacht or his portfolio (this guy looked like that kind of guy). Jordan's soft cheek getting scratched by the five o'clock shadow on his aristocratic jaw, as she leaned close to him to hear some flirtatious secret. Jordan's pretty lips forming a smile as her fingertip brushed over the bulge in his expensive suit pants and she imagined how big that same cock would be if it were hard, in her hand. If she tugged it and pulled it closer to her mouth...

I broke when I thought of Jordan bending over the bathroom counter, her hands on the mirror, looking at her own wild face as Mr. Good-Looking slowly, slowly inched his fat cock inside of her.

“I have to use the john,” I said, to no one in particular, and I strode to the men's room on our floor.

I locked myself behind a bathroom door and jerked out my phone. I waited with an increasingly hard cock and a sweltering impatience as it turned back on.

There were five messages from Jordan.

I stared at the list, wondering if by opening them I was going to cross over some line from here to there, and if everything would be changed after this. My stomach twisted cruelly. I started to feel that cold burn going through me. Three images. Would one of them be of something I didn't want to see? Or that I did want to see?

I opened them one at a time, in chronological order, wanting to drag out my delicious suffering.

I think he might have a big cock.

I stared at the screen. Jordan, Jordan. A wave of ecstasy went through me and crashed against the sharp pain she was causing me. I shivered. Of course this was exactly what I wanted her to do, I had practically begged her to do it...but I couldn't help feel something like a slip, a sensation that I was losing control. I mean, did she have to be so fucking
into it?

At the same time, something fluttered around inside of me hoping she would only get lewder.

The next message.

He does.

I imagined all the ways she could get this information, From the very PG (she saw a big bulge when she looked down) to the worst (she stuffed the whole thing in her mouth and sucked his cum down her throat while he balled her hair up in his fist and used her mouth like a rubber doll).

I shuddered again.

I stared at the next message: an image, only waiting to be opened. My stomach felt like ice, my chest was burning...or was it the other way around?

I steadied myself on the stall.

I opened the image.

It took a moment for me to figure out what it was, and perhaps Jordan knew that it would be hard for me to understand. She had captioned the image:
This is how hot this guy is.

And then it was clear: I was looking at the damp white fabric of her thong underwear, between her legs. Yes: right where her juicy cunt would open up the material was soaked through to a dark cream color.

I unbuckled my pants and took out my cock. Now I was dizzy, and I wasn't going to make it through the rest of the evening without releasing this energy. I started to stroke myself as I used my left hand to swipe clumsily to the next message.

I've done something naughty.

Another image.

I opened it.

Very very dark. I squinted.

Jordan, thoughtful girl, had captioned it as well.
I took off my panties.

The image seemed to clear itself up: yes, there it was. Jordan's bare snatch, between her legs, poorly lit because she was no longer in the bathroom but out at the bar, or the restaurant.

Or was she in a taxi, headed to a hotel?

I was so close to coming. I swiped at the phone as I pumped my cock furiously, and the message appeared but I barely caught the first words before, in my shaking, draining, fevered lust, the phone slipped out of my hand and fell.

Right into the fucking toilet.

What I had managed to read of the message was burned into my mind, though.

I hope you don't mind that  -

“Fuck!” I hissed. But I couldn't be bothered to worry about it at that moment. Only what it might have said. I hope you don't mind that I fucked him. I hope you don't mind if I suck his big cock. I hope you don't mind that I let him stroke my clit in the back seat of a taxi.

I hope you don't mind. I've done something naughty. I took off my panties. Look how wet they were, just thinking about this great big cock, on this hot young man...I hope you don't mind I went ahead and let him show me all ten inches of it and then I couldn't help myself...

I had the presence of mind to come into a wad of toilet paper. I almost gave myself a stroke trying not to yell.