A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (18 page)

“You haven't even noticed that I've grown a cock!” Then she started fake crying.

I hugged her to me. She didn't want to keep talking about something once she made a joke. It was the signal that the message was received, it was what she wanted, and she didn't need any more discussion.

“It's so fucked up,” she said, after a minute, and it was an unexpected statement. The high I was on started to crash inside of me.

“I know it's like...dangerous for your job. Dangerous in general. A bad idea, people say it never works.”

I closed my eyes. What was I feeling? She was making true statements but I wanted her to stop. At that moment I realized that I fully wanted this new step in our relationship; I wanted to keep going, I wanted to push the boundaries.

“But I like it,” she finished.

I was on such a roller coaster through that sentence I didn't know what to say.

She looked up at me.

“I like it too,” I managed to say.

Jordan bit her thumb and looked straight across the room. “Would you want me to do...I don't know. Something more than that?”

I stroked her arm. “I...I mean, I want you to do, whatever...makes you happy. I really mean that,” And saying this, I realized it was true. “I've been...I really like what we've been doing.” I felt something twist in my chest. “But if you wanted to take it...I don't know, to the next level...”

Jordan was chewing on her thumbnail and it escaped her teeth with a sharp click.

“If I did that,” she said. “I might lose my job.”

I gave a fake sigh. “Oh, Jordan...not if I lose mine first, because I'm so distracted.”

We both laughed.

It felt good, to laugh about that. Because the truth was: of course I cared. I had house payments and car payments and two kids who burned through electronics like they were toilet paper. But I didn't
care
the way I had cared months ago, like there was nothing else in the world except to rise to the heights of DA and then become a judge. Jordan was back where she should have been all along: the most important thing.

It put me in a certain uneasy state that the “thing” which put Jordan front and center was our new-found sex life, and that what it involved was something that was a little dangerous, a little outside of the “norm.” That it was a thing that, if discovered by anyone, wouldn't play very well for me.

But that was precisely where the bite of it came from, too.

“Look,” I said. “I feel like...” I sighed. Talking about our relationship had never been my strong point. It was probably where it had all derailed for so long.

“I feel like we're closer than ever,” Jordan said, and I squeezed her as a thank-you for finishing my thoughts. “Is that weird?”

Maybe it was.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it's how I feel, too.”

She dropped her hand onto my chest. “Will we still feel like that if we change things up, take it further?”

Her hand was moving down my chest, closer to my cock. It was sending ripples of excitement through me, as though she were squeezing me already.

Take it further.

Would things still be the same? Right now, I knew, I had things almost perfect with Jordan. I was more into her than I was when we were young and I first started dating. But I also knew how it was with sex, with love, with relationships: if you settled into the same thing, it would eventually become dull. How long would it be exciting just to see her flirt with other men?

But if she took it further, would I get what I wanted, or would the jealousy tear us apart?

I knew I should have said all of this. But Jordan was already climbing on top of me, and my hands were already sliding along her ribs to the supple swell of her breasts, where her nipples were swinging closer, closer to my mouth…

So the conversation didn't really get finished at all.

A
WINNER

The thing about Jordan's job as a honey-trapper is that she couldn't really choose the men she was out to trap. Right after our conversation, and all the excitement it induced in me and in her, she was assigned a slew of men she had no intention of sleeping with.

It didn't stop her from doing her job with the same incredible professionalism she had always done it with, and it didn't completely destroy the fun of me coming to watch. But if I was there, she would find me and give me the slightest shake of her head.

Some of these disappointments were not really disappointing to me: there was a balding, poorly-dressed banker who laughed much too loudly at anything Jordan said, until she texted me that she couldn't take him seriously because of that laugh. The evening ended up with us having silly sex, interrupted by bouts of uncontrollable sniggering.

A software engineer, from across the room, seemed promising at first. I had, by the time she went on this mission, begun moving closer and closer to where she was. I wanted to hear what she said. I wanted to smell whatever perfume she was wearing. I wanted to watch her touch her mouth, or tuck her hair behind her ears. It was all so much more delectable up-close, near her.

The man had been fairly attractive. Looking at him I saw echoes of my own appearance: sandy hair, pleasant features, trim physique (which by the late thirties was the equivalent of “hot,” Jordan had informed me). I had been impressed by the way that Jordan had immersed herself fully in what she called her “moderate-bimbo act,” which apparently was the way to go with some guys. She laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm. “Oh my god!” she exclaimed, over and over. And: “That's
so
way over my head.”

It was looking promising to me. She seemed to be having fun, and to tell the truth I felt safe with a choice like this guy: one in which Jordan was acting, and not being herself. It would give all of the pleasure of jealous pain, while avoiding the real, gritty jealousy. But she texted me when he went to the bathroom:

Can you believe this guy? If he talks any more about himself his cock will come out of his own mouth.

I snorted my beer through my nose. Jordan had certainly acquired an edgy humor and a bit of boyish filth to her comments since working this job – not just the honey-trapping, but the PI office. I liked it. No, I adored it. It combined with her elegant new sexiness to have the most intoxicating effect. Especially since, underneath it all, she was still the same sweet Jordan I had married.

So that guy didn't work out.

A dry spell came along, and some of the enthusiasm we had for the idea began to wane. We talked about it less, I obsessed about it less, and we acted it out less in bed.

Then I received the text:

We may have a winner.

It had been almost three months since we had our conversation about Jordan taking things to the next level. It had slowly edged away from the forefront of my mind. But now it was back, and my whole body responded to the text. My pulse raced, and I could feel my heart in my chest, pounding with the sudden excitement. My cock came to life almost instantaneously, pulsing with the ache that months earlier had been my constant companion. My breath became shallow and fast. Icy and boiling blood seemed to pour through my body all at once.

An image. I opened it.

I was in a rarely-used corridor of the courthouse, where the carpet was moldy and the lesser functions of the court were tucked away, waiting on the assuredly quick verdict of a jury in a felony theft case. I was grateful to be alone.

Jordan had snapped a photo of the photo she had been given to work the case. A handsome, rough-looking, guy with slightly Slavic features glowered at the camera. It almost looked like a mugshot. I winced, then I read the caption.
Hockey player.

Well, that explained the glower. And the slightly crooked nose.

Something stirred inside of me, as the cliched thoughts about the masculinity of an athlete bubbled up in my mind. I was already imagining his biceps, actually bulging. His six-pack abs. His enormous thighs, as thick and solid as tree trunks from skating. His big, rough hands, wrapping around Jordan's small waist to lift her up against a wall and spread her thighs open, so he could pound away at her with his superhuman strength…

My cock was rock solid. Blood was pounding in my ears.

Looks good,
I tried to type, but it came out:
Loops goidf.

Jordan sent a picture of herself in reply, evidently unaffected by my spelling errors. It was her mouth, with her finger in between her teeth.

My stomach turned ice-cold.

Is this actually what I wanted?

Now that I had some time between the idea and what seemed like the actual event, I started to have my doubts. Jordan's response, for some reason, sent a knife through my heart.

And yet…

My body was responding like a five-alarm fire. I couldn't deny that I was back up to the dizzying heights I had felt months before, when we started on this adventure. It was sucking me in like an abandoned drug of choice, threatening to rage as addiction again.

“Paddy?”

Cassie was standing at the end of the corridor, her face doing nothing to hide her annoyance at having had to search for me. I looked down at the bench I was sitting on and saw that my work blackberry had several notifications. I picked it up. It was on vibrate. I must have been so distracted I didn't feel it.

“They're ready,” she said, her impatience growing.

I looked at her. I must have seemed blank.

“The jury.”

“Okay,” I said, and I held up a finger. I started to type on my own phone.

Cassie sighed. “Paddy, they've been there ten minutes already. Sticks is getting pissed off.”

Send me the place and time.

Then I hurried back to the courtroom, briefcase in front of my crotch, trying to think of anything at all that would calm my fucking erection before I had to stand up in front of the terrifying Judge Sticks and the jury.

The place was The Honey Hole, a club in the dingy Five Points area that had been in recent decades renovated into nightclubs; first upscale, hipster hangouts, which had slowly degraded into more “urban” clubs.  Many a case of a stabbing had come to my desk outside one of these clubs in recent years. The thought even occurred to me, as I stared at the name of the club, that I might run into someone I had put away.

But self-preservation was not the name of the game for me right now.

I went home anyway, and stared into my closet.

Club.

I had been to a club maybe ten times in my entire life, and when I did go, it was sort of on accident and never much fun for me. Beyond that, what I knew of clubs was gleaned from music videos, TV shows, and my own criminal cases. None of which was helping me with the current problem, which was what to wear.

I was immediately distracted by the thought of what Jordan would wear. 

It didn't seem, I suddenly realized, all that difficult to catch a hockey player doing something improper. Weren't those guys always doing something stupid anyway? Right out in the open?

And then, a strange thought, a strange combination of what seemed like proprietary pride, and nervousness: would Jordan be able to hook some VIP-guy like this, at a club, where the competition was notoriously young and fierce?

I remembered Jordan in her black dress, and a shiver went through me.

My wife really
was
that hot. But she would have to turn up the heat to an all-new level to get the attention of a guy who was used to having girls throw themselves at him.

My cock was hard again, or maybe “still,” would have been a better description, and I was having a hard time thinking.

What the fuck should I wear? I briefly considered consulting Olivia, but she had given me such a look when I came home, and I was still a little sheepish about having enjoyed her display with her boyfriend so much. I nixed the idea.

I settled on jeans and a white shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror.

I wasn't bad-looking. I looked, though, like a man who worked in an office. I looked like the wrong kind of person to be at a club called, almost ironically, The Honey Hole.

I went out to the kitchen. Olivia was watching TV with her standard bowl of cereal on her knee.

“Olivia,” I said from the door. “Liv.”

She took a spoonful of Wheat Chex and crunched on it. Without looking up she said, “You should have stopped at 'Olivia.'”

“I'm sorry,” I said, and this made her jerk her head up at me. She squinted when she saw my jeans, and then turned back to her television program, which was, to my great surprise, a NOVA documentary.

“Olivia, I need to get into a club tonight. The Honey Hole
.
You know it?”

Olivia turned back to me, and stared at me for a full minute before she snorted loudly. “Not like that, you're not.”

And then, maybe seeing my desperation, her face softened. “Jesus. The two of you are fucked up. Here.” She stood up, and gave me no indication whatsoever of what to do. I followed her, up to her upstairs suite, which I was unsurprised to find completely trashed.

She fished a pair of pants from under the bed, and handed them to me. They were also jeans, but it was easy to see they were “cooler.”

“Oh god,” I said. “Are these..?”

“You want to get in, or not?” she said, and started to fish something out of a drawer.

The jeans fit, and I squeezed my eyes closed as I pulled them on, hoping they weren't too dirty, and that Olivia's boyfriend wore underwear. I decided to put it out of my mind.

She tossed an even more wrinkled white shirt at me. I ignored the faint smell of another guy, and put it on.

She was already in her bathroom, ransacking the cupboard, and she returned with a bottle. She was squeezing a clear liquid into her hand. “Here. Your fucking hair makes you look like Warren Cleaver or whoever he is.”

It took me a moment to get the mangled reference, which I was surprised Olivia could make at all, and in that time she raked her fingernails through my hair and mussed it gently. I tried to push the image of her huge tits and her stretched ass out of my mind as she sent shivers of arousal down my spine with her scalp treatment, but it wasn't easy.

“There,” she said. She stood back and looked me up and down, and when she got to my crotch, her lips formed a sly smile. “It's okay,” she said. “I have that effect on everyone.”

She stepped out of my way, and I looked at myself in the big mirror of the bathroom.

I looked pretty good.

“Thanks, Liv,” I said. “Olivia,” I corrected myself quickly.

Even though I looked cooler, it became obvious to me as I drove downtown again that I wasn't going to get into a club. Not as an unaccompanied, middle-aged male. No way. And the last thing I wanted to do was stand in line by myself.

But self-preservation, even of my pride, was far away from my top priority. The thought flitted around and disappeared almost as soon as it came into my head. It was replaced by thoughts about Jordan. What she was wearing, what she would do, how far she would go.

The line, as I had imagined, was not overwhelming but was fairly long. I tucked my fists into a leather jacket Olivia had insisted I wear. It was freezing. I wished I had, instead, worn the trench coat I had almost left the house in, because at least then I would be warm until I was rejected from this club.

I kept my head down, not wanting to look like the fool I felt like, so I was shocked when an arm shot out of the line and grasped my shoulder.

I looked up.

It was Jordan, but it wasn't. She was grinning, and cocked her head to the side. “Come on in with me, baby,” she said.

I stepped over the rope, still staring at her. Behind me, a bunch of people groaned and someone called me a faggot. Great. Jordan waved her finger in the air and yelled, “He's with me!”

“Call me if you need a real man, honey!” was the answer.

Who was this woman I had married?

I looked her up and down.

It was my wife, but it wasn't. Her auburn hair seemed darker. She had straightened it, and it fell like a sheet of satin around her face, framing it in a long, shaggy curtain. Her eyes were encircled by black eyeliner and a smoky haze of gray shadow that gave her sleepy, sexy, come-fuck-me look. Her lips shone with a childish lip gloss, a bright, teenaged pink.

But the dress was the kicker.

“That looks like underwear,” I whispered.

“I know,” she said, jumping a little and hugging herself. “I'm fucking freezing.”

The dress was made of satin, and the unforgiving fabric swept around her every curve, looking for a flaw to exaggerate and finding nothing but smooth, taut skin to hug. Spaghetti straps held it the low-dipping fabric precariously over her breasts. Behind, it dipped savagely to her lower back, and it was short – barely mid-thigh.

It was also bright, bright pink.