A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (3 page)

“He just got here,” Olivia said, dryly.

And then, juts as quickly as my suspicions had disappeared, they were rekindled.

Not like a suspicion. No, very suddenly, they were on fire again.

Why was that? I couldn't even put my finger on it.

I looked to Olivia, and saw the very last moment of a look. Her eyebrows were up, her face had jerked forward slightly, her lips were pressed together.

She was telling Jordan something with that expression.

It was that look that people with a secret give each other.

A warning? A prompt? What was it?

My eyes went to Jordan next, this time with more scrutiny.

She was wearing gym clothes, yes. Her hair was in a bun, yes.

But her hair was smooth. There was no fringe of frizzy, escaped hairs that she would normally have.

She had no makeup on, true.

But there was a gray smudge beneath her left eye.

Circumstantial.

But convincing.

Jordan was the woman from the bar. I could feel it.

“Well,” she said, pushing nonexistent stray hairs from her face. “I'm going to take a shower.”

And then she walked past me. Another look to Olivia, who shrugged.

I stood there, and Olivia sauntered to the living room, her middle finger extended as she walked out of the kitchen. Mostly a joke we “shared.” It was a few seconds before it hit me.

Linen, and jasmine. A clean, floral, expensive scent. Some kind of spice in it.

New.

The same smell that had lifted my eyes in the bar.

Faint, as though it had been washed away, but still there.

I took my computer to my office, shaking.

My wife was the woman at the bar.

My wife was the woman at the bar.

I stared into the oblivion of the screen.

S
MOOTH

It wasn't long before Jordan opened the door to the office, which was unusual. She usually left me alone to work, and called out a goodnight from behind the door.

She was wrapped up in a fluffy white bathrobe, and my suspicious mind immediately went to dissecting everything about her. Where was the robe from? Was it a hotel robe? It looked like one. She smelled different now. Was she covering up her previous scent?

She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.

She surprised me by brushing her lips over my ear. Her robe hung open and I caught a glimpse of her breasts. A tawny nipple teased me with the phantom feel of it in my mouth, all of her creamy skin against my face.

She picked up my files – carefully, closing them and setting them in order on a safe shelf – and then leaned against the empty space she had created on my desk. She loosened the tie of her robe, and it burst open. Her full breasts were the first thing to emerge, and catch my attention. The robe opened until I could see only the full mound of her flesh, just before it peaked in a pool of toasted aureola and her button-like nipple. Her flat stomach was next, and I noted with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation that her abs were cut through by a line of muscle. She had been working out, and it was paying off.

But working out for whom?

My eyes went lower, to where I expected to see her fairly unruly snatch, a deeper, browner mahogany, nearly black.

A chill went through me instead.

She was entirely smooth.

“What the?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. The cold fear and the numbing jealousy and a hot lust spiked through me and made my hand move, almost like a reflex, to touch her smooth snatch. The feeling of her bare lips sent a shiver through me. When I moved down, I found moisture at the edges of her bare folds.

Many things were going through my mind now. A blizzard of images and thoughts: The shimmering auburn hair at the bar this evening. The possibility that Jordan was cheating on me, and the avalanche of consequences. A vision, for some reason, of Olivia's ass and her bobby-socks. My career. An image of a cock, filling my wife's pussy.

Everything burned so much I couldn't tell if it was erotic or a nightmare.

Jordan's bare snatch.

She scooted up and onto the desk. “Do you like it?” she said.

Her voice seemed merely casual. Normal. Like she was really asking this question.

But
bare?
Completely smooth? My hand made another pass at her and I felt an electric snap in my cock. This was...too much.

“This new girl at my wax place talked me into it. At first it was
awful.
But I got used to it and I like it. I've been waiting to show you.”

“Wax place?” Since when did my wife have a “wax place?”

My mind went reeling through our last sexual encounters, trying to picture her bush.

But usually, they were brief, tired affairs. In the morning, rolling over and having standard missionary sex.

There was no way of knowing if this was new or old, this “wax place.”

As I was thinking all of this, Jordan ran her fingers down the lapels of the robe, and pulled it open. At the same time she parted her thighs, and gave me the full view of her smooth pussy. As she spread her legs, the lips of her snatch opened up, and they radiated a puff of warm, honeyed moisture. I looked at her pink folds, which she used one hand to expose.

I forgot immediately about my suspicions when she placed her feet up on either side of my chair and used her well-sculpted thighs to pull my chair toward her. Her hand slid over the crown of my head and pulled me gently in, closer to her smooth cunt.

Never mind that Jordan never did this kind of thing.

Never mind everything I had just suspected.

I grasped her thighs with my hands to hold them further apart, and allow me to steer her pussy toward my mouth. I ran my tongue along her outer lips, and then I dipped into the tangy sweetness of her soaked inner labia. I looked up at her, to see her mouth hang open, and her eyes close to half-mast. Fluttering. I sought out her clit. It was hardened, and easy to find the smooth nub of it where her nerves were coiled. I ran my tongue over it and felt her legs shake in my hands.

I began to work on her, moving slowly at first, enjoying the feel of her winding up from head to toe. Her juices began to well up and coat my chin, and her bare lips. They smeared into her thighs as she twisted in my arms. I enjoyed the guttural moan that came from her throat, the squealing that rose from her chest. And then, a sudden freeze, as her orgasm seized her. I sucked up her clit in that moment, and I could feel how it unleashed a panic inside of her. Her fingers clawed at my head, and pulled my hair hard. She snapped her thighs together, enclosing me in her gushing thighs.

I squirmed out of her grip and looked up at her. Her mouth was open and she was panting.

I undid my pants, and pulled my cock out.

I jerked her by the knees from the table and onto the chair. I found her cunt with the tip of my cock and I reached behind her to cup her ass and push her down, onto my shaft. The robe slid from her shoulders and her big, beautiful tits bounced free, in enormous, heavy arcs, as she slid down to the base of my cock.  

Her pussy was so wet that I cut into like a knife in butter, and as soon as her ass touched my thighs and the weight of her pressed against my balls, I could feel her cum practically pouring over my scrotum, dripping down my balls and between my legs.

She squeezed me from the inside, and began to bounce up and down on my cock. She wiggled to get her feet on the floor, and her cunt ground against me as she did. She started to move up and down again, but I stopped her by bunching her hair in my fist and moving her sideways. She picked up on my desire quickly, and she ground her body back and forth against me. She was crushing my balls and bending my cock, but it felt incredible. I released her and she began to bounce again, quickly now, her own desires rekindled. Her great, heaving breasts slapped against her own frame, and I watched, fascinated, as a trickle of sweat carved a path down one of them, growing as it plunged between them. When I could feel my orgasm ready to burst, I pressed her against me, and let my face get absorbed in the taut flesh of her breasts.

She wasn't done, and she continued to grind against me until her pussy also seemed to burst, and I felt her hot cum, and mine, raining down my cock, and balls, puddling beneath me on the chair.

She rested on my lap, and pushed her damp hair out of her face.

She kissed me, and smiled. “Wow. I guess you like it.”

I blinked.

Liked what?

Almost instantly, the weight of this evening’s thoughts slammed down on my elation. I was still feeling warm, fucked-out, but the emptiness of mind that sex afforded me filled in like a broken vacuum.

Her bare snatch.

Her “trip to the gym.”

Her jasmine-linen perfume.

The fact that she had been sitting at the bar with a fat, old man.

The fact that all evidence pointed to my wife having an affair.

She climbed off of me, reading no change in my mood. (More evidence, I decided, that she was distracted. Thinking of someone else).

“That was fun,” she said. She kissed me again. “Glad you came home. I have to get to bed, though.”

Truth be told, I had occasionally imagined this moment. The moment when the preponderance of evidence became so overpowering that I would know, for certain, that my wife was having an affair. I had imagined it, and I had played out what I would do, in my mind, time and time again.

Jordan was beautiful. Far more beautiful than a man like me would ordinarily get his hands on. But I had knocked her up when she was still a little gangly, still an ugly duckling. Eventually, she would come into her own, realize that she was a swan, and move off to the kind of man she deserved.

Believe me, I thought about it.

It depended, I had decided long ago, on where I was in my career. If I were a judge, or if I were on the path to political candidacy, then I would cover it up. Forgive her. Avoid a scandal.

If I were, as I was then, a deputy DA, now was the time to break with her. Get a divorce. Set her free.

The kids were old enough. They would survive.

A divorce was nothing, among lawyers.

I closed my eyes.

All those ideas were just bluster. Me telling myself a lie.

The truth was, there was no way I was going to dump Jordan.

Or have a real talk with her about all of this and run the risk of her lying to me.

Or worse yet, turning to me with a callous smile, and telling me the truth. 

I was going to investigate. And then, I was going to try and defend her.

And if I couldn't defend her?

You're a fucking prosecutor,
Doug's voice said, in my mind.

Right now, I was too afraid of the truth to look it in the eye.

So what did Patrick Goodall do when it was clear his wife was having an affair?

I kissed her goodnight. I smiled. And I told her I would be right there.

Then, I called Doug's brother.

T
ALK WITH YOUR WIFE

Everything that Doug was, his oldest brother was not.

Ricky was affable, warm, and rail-thin. He spoke with a soft and calm voice, and gave the aura of a real guru or a hostage negotiator. He had an impeccably trimmed beard and his hands, even the most unobservant male could not help noticing, appeared to be manicured.

He had, the legend went, eaten enormous quantity of protein shakes to get on the Force, worked his way up to detective, and then been put undercover for his heroine-thin and boyish appearance. He was now retired to the realm of private investigations.

He had raven-black hair and steady, green eyes. He rubbed his beard while I told him my story, none of which made him flinch at all. He made a few notes on his notepad.

I told him I was certain I had seen my wife at the bar. I told him the whole story, leaving nothing out.

When I finished talking, he looked at me for a moment without blinking. He pressed his fingertips into his lips.

His face seemed to shrug.

“I can take your case, of course, Patrick. But I am going to give you the advice I give all of my clients in situations like this, which arise very frequently.” His eyes drifted upward for a moment, and he seemed to get lost before he began again: “Very frequently. And that is to go home, and have a talk with your wife. If you do that, you won't have to pay me anything, and you will be, in all likelihood, arrive in exactly the same place. Just a little earlier.” He looked at me with his unflinching gaze.

I stared back. He sounded like some kind of monk.

He took up a pen, and his demeanor changed suddenly. “Of course, this is the business I'm in and so I won't give you too much time to mull that over. Here is the estimate for my services...”

He scribbled on a paper. Then he looked up suddenly.

“You say she works for a PI?”

“Arest Greene.”

Ricky's eyes quivered slightly. He seemed to be restraining an eye roll. “Yes.”

He started writing more. He tore the paper off and handed it to me.

The figure meant nothing to me. Too low to be total, too high to be...

“This is per..?” I prompted. 

“Per day.”

Jesus.

Ricky had the tips of his fingers back together again, and his calm smile on. “Go home, and try to have that talk with your wife.”

The problem with being an attorney, and more importantly, an attorney with his sights set on being a judge, is that there is no “going home and talking to your wife.” There is a slew of meetings and courtroom appearances, piles of files and motions. There is Doug, your companion in misery. There is Catherine Gates, the DA, swooping in like a hawk to rain shit all over your parades. There are perps and cops and dingy rooms at the county jail. A lot of hours with a Blackberry in your hand on a wooden bench in a marble hall, waiting for the slow-motion circus of justice to eek its way through the great colon of the courthouse like the big, fat log of shit that it is.

But there is no going home to talk to your wife, not really.

So my mind was taken off Jordan, in a manner of speaking. I couldn't afford to turn myself over to the thoughts about last night. Images, certainly. I spent the whole day with images of her red hair, first straightened and flowing, then tied up in a smooth bun. Images of her ankles in her expensive shoes (when did she buy those shoes?), and then images of her shaved pussy, just before my face.

I didn't have time to indulge in the fantasies that were unraveling from those images. The possibilities, the inconsistencies. I had too much shit to do.

But on the drive home I was finally left with my thoughts. Free to go wherever I wanted with them.

Go home and talk with your wife.

Ricky's advice was solid, and there was one thing I'd learned after seven years in the DAs office: just take advice from the people who know. Homicide cops know the husband did it, and PIs know the story is going to end in marriage counseling and/or divorce.
Happy to take your money, but I'll tell you honestly: skip to the end and save it for the divorce attorney you already seem to need.

The idea of getting divorced from Jordan, though, just really didn't flicker in my mind as a real possibility. I loved Jordan too much. Even if she was cheating on me. 

My heart felt like a cold stone every time I had that thought.

I knew, also, even as I walked out of Ricky's office, even: I wasn't going to talk to Jordan about this. Not yet.

There were the inconsistencies in the story, all of which pointed to reasonable doubt that Jordan was in fact the woman in the bar-

I think you'd know your own wife, Paddy.

But would I? How much time did I spend with “my own wife?” Just me and my wife? Almost none. How much time did I spend looking at her, anymore? I had no idea how long her hair was. I had no idea when she shaved her bush. I had no idea she had been working out so hard at the gym that her ass and thighs had gotten incredibly firm.

So
would
I recognize my own wife in a bar?

Which argument is this supporting?

Good question.

There was also the matter of her clothes. Jordan didn't buy expensive, ultra-expensive clothes like that. She was a paralegal. She worked for a PI who worked for ambulance chasers. He probably smoked in the office. She wore jeans to work. She hated spending money on clothes because she wanted to spend it all on the kids' extra activities. To make sure, improbably, that they didn't end up throwing half their lives away like we had.

Like
she
had. You went ahead with yours.

I pushed this thought out of my mind with practiced ease.

A darker one came in to fill the void.

If she had been cheating, wouldn't she have tasted different? She took a shower, sure. But part of my eagerness last night had been investigative, and she seemed...well, fresh as a daisy.

There are condoms.

A knife twisted in my stomach again. Oddly, though, my cock was rock hard thinking about our spontaneous sex the night before, the taste of her cunt in my mouth.

Imagining Jordan with another man.

That fat man?

That was the other thing. Jordan was hot. Really, really hot. Something I'd sort of forgotten and was now seeing again. That guy had been...well, a disaster. And I was no underwear model, but I had a certain amount of charm, as the ladies say. No one would kick me out of bed.
That
guy would never make it through most women's front door.

Unless there's something else she wants.

This was a stumper. Money?

She did want to send the kids to France or something for a semester.

But we had that money all saved up. 

Here my mind took a detour from reality, completely. What if Jordan was actually a nymphomaniac? What is...she was, like Olivia, prone to mischief for mischief’s sake? What if she just enjoyed going out and whoring herself around, not because she needed or wanted the money but just because it was fun to her?

She certainly looked the part, in that get-up, of high-class hooker.

You still don't know it was her, Paddy.

I couldn't tell if my inner voice was working for me or against me.

My mind started wandering, away from my imminent problems, to the sexier side of this problem. I had to admit, those escorts had a certain appeal to them. Classy, dressy, string-less, and professional. I would never take one out, but I could see why other men did...

And so, as opposed to thinking about how to talk to my wife about an issue that concerned our marriage, I instead spent the drive home fantasizing about her being an escort. An escort who had secret, insatiable nymphomaniac tendencies. An escort who was an escort because she was into some kind of terribly lewd and filthy sex act that she didn't want to share with me.

What could it be? Bondage? Sex toys? Spanking?

Images filled my mind, and I drove past my exit. Well past my exit. My balls were starting to ache by the time I turned around and made it home.