A Well-Laid Trap: The Story Of A Professional Hotwife (5 page)

I put a hand on her foot. Incredibly, almost as though my body was no longer communicating with my mind, I felt my hand stroke her leg, down her calf, and toward her inner thigh. I felt my cock get hard.

What the fuck was I doing?

I was here to ask her about her clothes. Make her flinch. Make her feel guilty, or confess. That she was having an affair, that she was unsatisfied with our marriage.

Wasn't I?

Or was I just here to enjoy the sound of her lying to me?

Or was I here to get my cock inside of her, like that would somehow give me insight to the real truth? 

Jordan smiled. Just barely.

She had cucumbers on her eyes.

“If that's you, Frank, you had better scram. My husband came home early tonight.”

I went numb in my limbs. My cock went hard as stone.

First of all, Jordan never joked like this. She didn't make jokes about sex or infidelity.

Second...she didn't know what I was thinking? Did she?

She couldn't. I hadn't shared it with her.

I moved my hand down her inner thigh, close to her outer lips. I stroked her skin with my forefinger. I faked an accent, but not a very good one, a kind of Pan-European sludge:

“But-ah your husband, he's a-work in the office.”

Jordan snorted. “Frank. Is that you? You sound like an Italian meat delivery man with a concussion.”

I smiled, because it was funny. But it made me uneasy.

Not Jordan's kind of joke.

Or was it?

Maybe it was. Maybe it had just been so long since I'd been around her. Maybe her sense of humor had changed, and I hadn't noticed. Maybe Jordan was actually...funny. Like this. 

“Frank is a big, hung...Asian... man from Jersey,” she purred. “He's like Jet Li.”

Just as I was starting to get sucked into some kind of serious, albeit strange, fantasy, she added:

“With a lisp. Like this: “But your husband, he is wolking in the offithe!”

She peeled off her cucumbers and laughed. Then she looked at me. My fingers were frozen, right where they had been when she started cracking wise. I was totally unsure of what to do.

To be honest, she almost seemed like a different person than my wife.

She looked down at my hand, submerged in the water (I had at least rolled my sleeve up, but the shirt was still soaked). “You going anywhere with that?” she said, looking down at my arm and smiling.

Then, she grabbed my wrist, and guided my hand, almost forcefully, to her pussy.

My fingers scraped over the ultra-smooth outer lips, and again they sent a jolt through me, as much of pleasure as painful suspicion. But my fingers were too entranced by the feel of them, by going further, into the hot inner lips, into the slippery juices that were inside.

“You have to be quick,” she whispered. “My husband's in the next room.”

Was this a joke? Why was she playing this game?

I didn't care, really.

My hand didn't care. I slid a finger into her pussy, and I felt it ripple with my touch. Craving. She rocked a little, getting her body against my hand so that it was where she wanted it. Her eyes closed partially, and she growled a little.

I began to move my fingers inside of her. They slipped easily in her hot, silken flesh. I found her clit with my thumb, and bent myself awkwardly to pinch her between my two fingers. Her reaction was breathtaking: I must have hit something much more right than usual. She sucked in her breath, and her eyes flew open. “Oh god!” she breathed.

Her face started to flush. Her excitement was consuming me. I stroked her clit with more force, and she squirmed but arched her body up to me. She wanted more.

She was staring at me. I watched her eyes, pupils growing, as I clasped her clit between my pointer finger on the inside, and my thumb outside. I felt the hard nexus of nerves beneath my fingers, darting from side to side beneath the pressure of my fingers. Her mouth opened, and she gasped again. Her hand gripped mine, but not to stop me, no: to steady herself.

And then, just as I could feel her cunt closing around my fingers more tightly, welling up with her slick juices, I felt my ass slide out from under me.

I was going down. I pulled my hand from inside of her, hoping to steady myself, but it was too late.

The water closed around me, and instead of shocking me, it felt sexual. It was hot, it soaked my shirt, and it felt like two lips closing around me.

Jordan was not so pleased. “Oh, fuck!” she said. She had been so close. Her smooth legs lifted my head out of the water, and we slid around in the tub until I was submerged at the waist, my feet hanging out on the side, my torso against the deep, opposite wall.

I started to laugh, but Jordan was unamused. She wriggled out from under me, and her hands went to work immediately to free my cock from my pants. I thought about suggesting that we get out: but the clothes were already ruined, and her face was set to an expression I hadn't seen in a long time.

Well, since the last time we had sex.

Yesterday.

Yesterday.

Hunger.

She pulled my cock out, and her smile told me she liked how she found it. She climbed on top of me, and matched the tip of my cock to her wet pussy. A rubbery squeak at the entrance, where water and bubbles had washed away her smooth moisture, and then she was coating me with her heat and slippery flesh.

She came quickly, grinding her hips a few times and then tightening all around me. I felt a burst of hot liquid inside of her, and then the writhing of her flesh around mine.

Her breasts, large and shiny, a few bubbles sliding down their amazing curves, were in front of me. I placed a hand around her left breast, squeezing it – but it was firm and gave very little. Her nipple flickered upward, right to my mouth. I made a sweep around her aureola, and then found the small pebble of her nipple with my lips. She turned rock-hard in my mouth, under my tongue, and I swirled my tongue around her. I was rewarded by a light gasp, and a crushing pulse in her cunt.

I turned my attention to her other breast. I licked her aureola with the flat of my tongue, and blew over the marble of her nipple, making it turn to stone in the cool air. Another wave of pleasure rippled through her and my cock was squeezed in her cunt.

She was hungry again, and she had started to rock back and forth on my lap.

But suddenly, she moved her feet, and placed them on either side of me. She rose from the water, and stepped out of the tub. I was still reeling from the disappointment of her sudden departure, sitting there in the tub in my clothes, when I realized that she was going for the bed. 

She was still shiny and soapy with water from the tub. She climbed onto the bed, on her hands and knees, and looked behind her. I was wringing myself from my clothes, and the comical sight of it made her smile, but only for a second. I watched as she moved her fingers between her legs, to her glistening cunt, and began to move her pointer finger, with its long, manicured red nail, along the hardened nub of her clit and down, to the gushing hole of her slit.

I wriggled of my clothes – the suit had clung to me like Saran Wrap, and my cock was robbing my body of most of its blood and finesse. Jordan's sliding fingers and bare pussy were not helping. Her wet, pink folds were all I could see or concentrate on. Finally, free of my pants, not bothering with my shirt, I stumbled to the bed and grasped her hips. My cock was so hard and ready, and her slit so wet, that I entered her easily, and sunk back into her hot flesh.

The view from above her was incredible. It had been a long time since we had sex like this, doggy style. Her ass was round and firm, forming a heart shaped pillow for my hips to slam against as I pounded into my wife. I watched my cock moving in and out of her hole, wetter and stickier with each thrust.

Jordan leaned forward, and let her chest fall to the bed.

Then I felt it: her hand, reaching up through her legs, and grasping my balls. She squeezed, and I shuddered. She grasped my balls and they pulled to a near-painful stretch when I moved my hips backward. The sensation was exquisite. I could feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge. But I wanted her to come again, and feel her pussy explode into a hot, sticky mess all over my cock. She squeezed again. I was lost.

“I'm going to come,” I breathed, and she squeezed my balls again. Then she pulled them with the flat of her palm, and mashed them against her clit. She rubbed my balls against her clit, making it impossible for me to move back or forth, and I closed my eyes with the sudden torture of it. I was so close, and I wanted desperately to move, but her grip on my balls was so firm, and she was rubbing them so furiously against her clit, that all I could do was feel my orgasm surge up from inside of me, out of my control.

She released my balls just as the first wave exploded inside of me, and she smashed her ass back against my hips, forcing my cock deep inside of her. She wiggled, more side-to side than back and forth, and her pussy clenched around me. The motion was unusual but hot as hell; the stimulation was so different from the norm it was almost painful. I shuddered, and when I came I yelled loudly. I had to lean forward and support myself on her back as she ground against me until she, too, let out a gasp, and came.

We collapsed on the bed, and there was silence for a moment.   

But just as quickly as sex had taken over my thoughts, they returned. All of the dark, looming doubts.

“Wow,” I said, wishing I wouldn't speak. “You sure learned a lot from Frank.”

What was I doing? I knew I wasn't playing some silly game, like she must have been. Pretending to have a lover, a private joke for the evening, discarded the next day for being silly and pointless.

No. “Frank” was real to me.

Or I was trying to make Frank real.

Jordan might have said a hundred things here. She might have laughed, or denied it, or played along. She turned to me, though, and told me I was getting the sheets soaked.

She stood up, her back to me, her ass looking glorious, my cum dripping between her legs. Then she walked across the room and got back in the tub.

“That was fun,” she commented, putting the cucumbers back on her eyes, and sliding deep into the water of the tub. She turned the hot water on with her toe.

I sat up and peeled the wet shirt off my torso. I couldn't really read her mood. She seemed like a completely different person. Everything that had just transpired – while extremely hot, and extremely fun – was so unlike Jordan that if I were more of a sci-fi fan or conspiracy theorist, I'd have believed aliens had snatched her body.

“Hey honey?” she said, as I exited the room, pulling a shirt over my head.

“Uh-huh?”

She lifted a cucumber and winked at me. “Tell Frank he can-ah come back, any-ah time, eh?”

The cucumber dropped, and her face went back to neutral. Revealing nothing.

What the fuck?

I stayed up late. I got nothing done for work. My mind went in endless circles, none of which led me to the remotest clue what my password was.

My mind was being eaten by obsession.

Was my wife cheating on me?

Or was I losing it completely?

The jury was out on that one. Way the fuck out to lunch, with no answer.

Now this new thing, this way that Jordan was
fucking.

It was hot. It was really fucking hot. It was refreshing, it was fucking inspirational.

But was it too hot? Wasn't it just a little too energetic, a little too unusual? A little too new?

And then all this joking. All this happy, carefree Jordan. Wasn't that unusual? Where did it come from?

My vision was getting blurry, staring at the screen.

I was staying up because I wanted Jordan to fall asleep. I wanted to go and dig through her immense side of the closet. Find her purse. Break into her phone.

This is when I started thinking about the scene I had walked in on this evening. Replaying it in my mind, looking for damning clues, looking for signs of my own deranged paranoia, making myself crazy because I didn't know which story I wanted to be true. 

And I saw it in my mind. The white phone.

Her phone was black, wasn't it?

Another dark thought slithered through me: Did Jordan have two phones?

I shook my head.

Had I even seen a white phone?

Every witness is a shit witness. Every fucking witness is completely full of shit.

Doug's voice again, rattling away in my head. I didn't even think Doug had said that to me, ever.

It was true, though. You couldn't trust yourself, or what you thought you saw.

People saw what they wanted to see.

Every now and then I would turn this observation back on myself. Ask the painful question:

Is this what I wanted to see?

I was too much of a coward to answer.

Around 1am, I went to the kitchen. My eyes scanned the room for Jordan's purse, and found it, sitting on a set of drawers.